


Out Of Darkness

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sexual Content, fear of the dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4316457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate timeline: By the end of the war with Spain, Porthos is Captain of the Musketeers. Aramis declined to leave the monastery, and Athos and d'Artagnan went missing almost a year previously, and are both presumed dead. </p><p>During a routine visit to a surrendered fortress after the ceasefire, Porthos suddenly discovers that Athos is actually still alive. Tortured and imprisoned in horrendous conditions, he's in a bad way and no longer remembers who he is. Porthos is determined to nurse Athos back to health even if his memories never return - but what Porthos doesn't bargain on, is slowly falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be upfront about this, d'Artagnan is dead from the beginning and stays dead (although his death is the only one referred to in the tags, everyone else makes it okay).

The wind whistling up the embankment and slicing through Porthos' cloak was icy, a reminder that the harsh winter they had weathered was not quite yet past. 

In places, tentative signs of spring were visible - tight green leaf buds on a few trees, fresh shoots at the foot of the more sheltered hedges - but for the most part the landscape he was looking out at was one of desolation. Blasted and barren, whole fields had been churned to muddy ruts from the fighting, frozen hard overnight and now gleaming wet and steaming slightly in the pale morning sun. 

The news had come through to him an hour ago, borne by a panting, stammering runner who was so excited by it he could barely get the words out. They had won. The war was over.

Porthos stared out over the shattered farmland and felt his skin grow numb from the relentless wind. It suited his mood. He felt just as numb inside. France might have won, a victory no doubt of paper and politicians more than military superiority, but all he could see was the futility of it all. 

What had they won? A few miles of territory that would no doubt be ceded back the next time Louis needed a favour from Spain. What had they lost? More than Porthos could ever truly comprehend.

While they were still fighting, it hadn't been so bad. He hadn't had to think about things, hadn't had the luxury of dwelling on anything but the here and now. The men depended on him, after all. Now, though. Now he would have an eternity to regret not having fallen here in the dirt with his friends, his blood slowly becoming one with the soil.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and marched back down the slope to the encampment. There would be arrangements to be made, and business to attend to. Self pity would have to wait.

\--

"Captain Porthos du Vallon."

A few heads turned as he was announced, and he nodded to those he recognised. Captains of other regiments, advisors to the king, various ministers, including Treville, who briefly caught his eye and managed to give the impression of smiling at him without actually moving his face.

"Finally. Now perhaps we can start." The petulant drawl came from the King, sprawled in a richly draped chair in the centre of the room and the only man present who was seated.

Porthos reddened, but gritted his teeth. He wasn't yet so comfortable with his position that a public rebuke didn't sting, and he wondered whether to apologise. In truth he was barely late at all, just the last to arrive and therefore the cause of any hold up. 

Fortunately, in his impatience Louis had already moved on, delivering what was clearly meant to be an inspirational victory speech but merely managing to give the impression he considered he had personally won the war for them.

It was received politely, if more effusively from the politicians than the soldiers. Porthos wasn't the only one tired of the years of fighting. 

"Well I'm sure you all have important things to be doing." Louis waved them away, clearly less than satisfied with the reception his pretty words had received. 

_Yes_ , thought Porthos, _and I could have been doing them now if I hadn't been forced to ride ten miles to listen to a fool in three clashing shades of velvet prattle on for twenty minutes._

"Your Majesty," he called as the crowd began to disperse, determined to get something out of this otherwise pointless trip. "Might I be permitted to make a humble request?"

Louis looked down his nose at him, as if Porthos had made some sort of obscene suggestion. "Well. I suppose you can _ask_ ," he declared, then laughed delightedly at his own perceived wit. "Oh very well - " he hesitated, waving a hand in vague circles as he searched for a name.

"Porthos du Vallon, your Majesty," Treville murmured in an undertone.

"Du Vallon, yes. Well get on with it then, I haven't got all day." 

Porthos forced his features into something more respectful that the glare they were demanding. Louis had plenty of reasons for remembering Porthos' name, and the fact that he didn't only spoke of how little he cared.

"Now that the fighting is over, and the men will presumably be at liberty to return home soon, may we be permitted to lift the rationing?" Porthos asked, his hat clenched between his hands in front of him. The fact he even had to ask rankled, but he knew the deep level of shit he'd be in if he took the decision without official sanction.

"It's a reasonable request sire," Treville murmured behind him, but Louis scowled.

"I'll be the judge of what's reasonable thank you Treville! Our hard won victory is no excuse for wanton gluttony!"

"It's hardly that," Porthos objected before he could stop himself. "The men are hungry your Majesty. I'm not asking they be allowed a feast, just a little more in their bellies."

Louis made a face. "A lean diet is good for the fighting man," he proclaimed. "There will be no change in the restrictions. And by the way, next time you are required to present yourself before us, see that you are properly attired. There is blood on your uniform." 

Porthos looked down, and frowned. It was an old stain, one it had proved impossible to entirely remove. He'd never known the name of the man whose dying moments had created it, but right now his sympathy lay more with that anonymous Spaniard than with his king. 

His irritation threatened to boil over into rage at the unfairness of it all, and for a split second he considered directing that rage at Louis. It would almost certainly get him executed, but at that precise moment he didn't much care. 

Behind Louis, Treville was sending urgent messages with his eyes, perhaps knowing the hair trigger on Porthos' temper better than most. But it wasn't him that Porthos was thinking of, it was someone else. Remembering how, for four years Athos had managed with consummate skill to juggle the demands of a whimsical and frequently thoughtless monarch, protecting the men under his command from the worse of the idiocy whilst still managing Louis with a politician’s tact. For a moment it wasn't Treville Porthos saw standing there, it was Athos, and what Athos couldn't fit into one quelling look wasn't worth fitting.

Porthos swallowed down his pride and indignance. "My apologies, sire. It's proving rather difficult to locate a suitable laundry, out here."

To his relief, Louis laughed uproariously and seemed to reconsider his previous restrictions on the back of it.

"Let it not be said that I am unsympathetic to the plight of my soldiers. You may each tonight break open casks of brandy for the men under your command," he proclaimed. This was met with considerably more enthusiasm than his speech had been, and Porthos received a certain number of appreciative slaps on the back from the other officers as they all adjourned to the next room.

Porthos was thinking gloomily that Athos probably would have handled it better from the start. He'd have offered Louis some flannel about how the men would like to hold a feast in honour of their king, and got them all masses of food. He sighed. He tried his best to be a worthy captain to the men, but he knew he lacked Athos' patience and felt his loss most keenly at times like this.

Treville had followed him out, and lead him discreetly into a window bay. "Well done for keeping your temper in there," he murmured. 

Porthos glared at him, feeling patronised. "I didn't do it for you," he shot back. Treville just looked at him, and Porthos sighed. "I'm sorry. Look, while you're here - there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I'll oversee the breaking of the camp and the deployment back to Paris, but - well - when we get back, I intend to resign my commission."

"What?" Treville stared at him in shock, taken by surprise. "Porthos, I urge you to reconsider."

"I've made up my mind," Porthos said. "Five years of death is enough for any man. And I've lost too much," he added heavily. 

"Look, Porthos, I miss them too - " Treville started, but Porthos cut him off with a contained anger.

"Don't you dare presume to know how I feel," he snarled. It was done in an undertone, but nevertheless some of the other men in the room looked round in curiosity. Porthos hissed in disgust, knowing he was wrong to take his frustration out on Treville but having no other target, and knowing, guiltily, that Treville would let it pass. He did.

"Where am I supposed to find another captain at such short notice?" Treville complained instead, changing the subject. 

Porthos shrugged. "Maybe you should winkle Aramis out of his monastery," he suggested with a grim humour. 

Treville snorted. "I doubt I would succeed where you all failed. What will you do with yourself anyway? Being a Musketeer was all you wanted in life. I'd hate to see you throw that away."

"It was an honour, once," Porthos said quietly. "To serve a king I believed in. But if this war has taught me anything, it's that he doesn't believe in us. Doesn't care if we live or die. There's nothing here for me any more." He sighed. "I'll stay until we can sort out a successor. There's several men I'd recommend. I'll have a think." 

Treville nodded, for the moment conceding temporary defeat. "Don't make any hasty decisions," he counselled. "We'll discuss this again."

\--

As Porthos rode back to the regiment's encampment, he considered Treville's words. What _would_ he do with himself? Go to sea, perhaps. Or become a monk. He snickered at the thought, knowing that that at least was hardly a life he was suited to. 

It brought Aramis to mind again though, and he sighed. Maybe that should be his first port of call. Make his peace there. Porthos had never quite been able to bury the simmering resentment that Aramis had chosen God and guilt over his friends and declined to leave his monastery at the start of the war.

It was an old hurt, but one that had been given a new rawness the day, almost a year ago now, that Athos and d'Artagnan had ridden out together on a mission behind enemy lines and never returned. 

Frantic searches had eventually located their horses, tethered in a small wood and unharmed, but of the two men there had never been another sign.

With no other choice, Porthos had stepped into the confused vacuum of command. Of the men left, he was the one who'd best known Athos' plans and strategies, and did his best to carry on in the same vein, telling himself he was only looking after things until Athos came back.

Eventually, after two months, Porthos had been officially confirmed in his rank. It was a bitter moment. To become a captain of the Musketeers had once been the highest honour he hoped to one day achieve - but not at the expense of his closest friends. The formal promotion also meant everyone else had given up hope that the two men might still be found alive, and it pained Porthos like an arrow to the chest.

When he could avoid it no longer, he'd sent word of their disappearance to Aramis. It had been the hardest letter he'd ever had to write.

Aramis' reply had been full of grief and sympathy, but still he remained within the monastery walls, and Porthos had never quite been able to forgive him that. He didn't know what it was he expected Aramis to do had he been there, only that it would have meant Porthos not being so utterly alone for the past year.

Yes, he would go and see Aramis. He'd had a growing need lately, just to be able to talk about Athos and d'Artagnan with someone who understood. There were plenty amongst the men who'd have been happy to reminisce, but Porthos conceded that it was probably bad for morale to see one's captain crying - and he suspected that once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Aramis, at least, would not judge him for that.

\--

The next day Porthos lead a party of men to formally accept possession of a nearby fortress on behalf of the crown. With the end of the war it had found itself abruptly located in what was now France, and grudgingly but peaceably surrendered.

Once there, they took charge of a rag-tag band of released French prisoners, in varying states of health and all heartily relieved to find themselves both at liberty and on the winning side.

"Is that all of them?" Porthos asked, eyeing the tattered group with a sinking heart that was calculating exactly how much this addition to their ranks was going to stretch their remaining rations. He wondered if there was anything much left in the kitchens here he could requisition for their needs.

"Yeah." The head of the guards looked over his erstwhile prisoners and made a desultory attempt at a headcount. "Oh. Possibly there's one more. In the oubliette." 

Porthos fixed him with a look. "Possibly? Don't you know?"

The guard looked shifty. "Well - last stretch of the siege and all that. It's possible he's not been fed for a few days. He might be dead."

Porthos bunched his fist in the man's shirt and dragged him forward so roughly he was forced to stand on tip-toe to breathe. "Show me."

The steps down to the lowest level of the dungeon were steep and slippery, and Porthos shivered as he followed his guide down into the darkness. He held his lantern up high and saw water running down the walls. They must be actually underground here, he realised, the cells carved into the cliff itself.

Eventually he was shown to a metal grille in the floor, and the guard unlocked it and heaved the grating back.

Porthos leaned over and peered into the blackness below, before recoiling as the stench hit him. Shit, and piss, and the sour smell of fever.

"You're seriously telling me there's someone down there?" he demanded incredulously. 

The guard shrugged. "There was."

Porthos looked again, lifting the lantern high enough that some light fell into the depths. There was a faint rustling from below which he assumed at first was rats, before catching sight of what he realised was an emaciated foot, pulled sharply out of the faint circle of light as if it had been burned.

"Get that ladder down there," he ordered, and the guard heaved a long wooden ladder off a hook on the wall and with some difficulty lowered it in. There was no further movement from below, and Porthos leaned over, a fold of his cloak over his mouth and nose.

"Oi!" He yelled down into the hole. "Party's over, time to go home. Get your arse up here!"

Still no sign of life, and Porthos frowned. "Who is he, anyway?"

The guard shrugged, in a gesture that Porthos was starting to find deeply irritating. "He was here when I came. I don't know who he is. I don't think he knows. His mind - is gone." The man made a descriptive gesture with his hand. "You should leave him there," he recommended. "One more day, two perhaps - he will be no more problem."

Porthos weighed the proposal in his mind for a second and found it wanting. He wouldn't leave a mad dog to die in a hole like that. Which meant, unfortunately, that he would have to go down.

He took off his cloak and stepped up to the opening, jabbing a finger into the guard's face. "You shut that lid on me while I'm down there," he warned, "and I will slice you like bacon from the feet up. You understand me?"

Having received an angry nod, Porthos started climbing down into the pit. The smell made him want to retch and he tried breathing through his mouth instead, although it wasn't much of an improvement.

When he reached the bottom the stone floor was slippery underfoot, and he tried not to think too hard about what he might be standing in.

"Hello?" He raised the lantern, and made out a pile of rags in the far corner that finally came into focus as a huddled figure.

"Hey," Porthos called softly, abruptly realising that the man was terrified of him. "It's okay. I'm not here to hurt you. You're free, you can go home now. The war's over." 

There was no response, and Porthos sighed. He set down the lantern on the floor and marched over, plunging a hand into the fuzzy darkness and grabbing the man by what he judged was the scruff of his neck.

There was a brief scuffle and a frantic whine of terror, then he went limp in Porthos' hands. As far as Porthos could tell he wasn't unconscious, just either playing dead or having given up in abject surrender. Perhaps he assumed death had finally come for him and welcomed it, thought Porthos with a grim sympathy. He slung the man over his shoulder and started to climb, regretfully abandoning the lantern below.

The prisoner was hardly a taxing burden, there was barely any weight to him and Porthos could feel the bones jutting through his skin. Porthos edged back up through the opening, and laid the man gently on the ground, where he immediately curled into a protective ball.

"Right. Let's have a look at you," Porthos declared, wiping his hands compulsively on his tunic in revulsion. He took the second lantern from the guard and bent over the prisoner, coaxing him to turn into the light with a gentle hand.

And stared. For one long heartstopping moment he couldn't breathe, didn't believe the evidence of his own eyes, didn't _dare_. But the longer he looked, the more the facts spoke for themselves. 

Despite the filthy, tangled beard that reached almost to the man's chest, and the frightened, unseeing eyes that skittered away from him without recognition, the face beneath the layer of grime was one more dear to him than his own, and utterly unmistakeable.

It was Athos.

"Athos?" Porthos' voice was hoarse in his throat, and he crouched down beside him, reaching out in wonder and shock. Athos flinched away, not recognising him and clearly expecting violence.

"Shh, it's okay." Porthos drew back a little. "I won't hurt you. Athos, it's me, Porthos," he persisted hopefully. "Don't you know me?"

Athos just curled into a tighter ball, arms over his face and Porthos got to his feet, whirling round on the unfortunate guard.

"What the hell have you done to him?" he demanded. 

"I haven't done anything," the man stammered. "I told you, he was like that when I came here. Who is he then?"

"Is there anyone else down there?" Porthos asked, ignoring his question and suddenly struck by the horrible thought that d'Artagnan might have been in the pit too - alive or not. It had been too dark to see much.

"No, just him."

"And there's no other holes like this? No one else stashed away in the dark? There would have been another man with him, when he arrived."

The man shook his head, retreating before Porthos' growing fury. "I keep telling you it was before my time. It's not my fault he's lost his mind."

"Your fault he's not been fed for days though, eh?" Porthos spat, remembering his earlier words. "Your fault he _stayed_ down there. You were in charge of the prisoners, weren't you? And you carried on treating him like an animal?"

"He was French, what's the difference?" 

With a snarl of fury Porthos drew his sword, and before he'd really thought about what he was doing had gutted the man with one vicious stroke.

The guard crumpled lifeless to the floor, and Porthos sighed, immediately regretting his impulsive action. It hadn't been his fault, really. And no doubt there were plenty of Spanish prisoners in places just as bad. But this was _Athos_ , and someone had had to pay for what had been done to him.

Porthos wiped his sword on the man's clothes, and kicked the body into the hole, dropping the grating closed after him. When he turned back to Athos it was to find him cowering against the wall in a shaking huddle, and Porthos realised that if he wanted to gain Athos' trust, killing a man right in front of him possibly hadn't been the smartest move. Athos probably thought he was next.

"Hey, look, it's alright," Porthos said softly. "You're safe now, okay? I won't let anyone hurt you." Now he had a second to study Athos more closely, he could see how painfully thin and filthy he really was, and noticed too that he had a wracking cough that didn't sound good at all. 

It struck him then, like a hammer blow. That all throughout the past year, all the long days and nights of wondering what had happened to him, that Athos had been here all along, trapped in this noisome pit, barely twenty miles from the Musketeers' camp.

Nausea rolled over him in a wave, and with last night's brandy churning sourly in his stomach Porthos had to lean against the wall and do a lot of deep breathing to stop himself spewing his guts up.

When he'd mastered himself he crouched down beside Athos again, fighting back tears. "I knew you weren't dead," he whispered. "I knew it. I'm sorry Athos. I'm so sorry. I should never have given up looking for you." 

Athos just blinked at him in helpless bewilderment, as if Porthos was speaking a foreign language. His lashes were wet, and for a moment Porthos thought he was crying before realising that even the low light coming from the lamp was hurting his eyes.

Reaching for his cloak Porthos wrapped it gently around Athos' bony frame, draping the hood over his head to protect him from the glare. Athos seemed to catch on and tugged it further around himself, disappearing thankfully into its folds. 

Porthos retrieved the lantern and picked Athos up in his arms like a child, his heart aching at how light he was. He was glad the cloak was all-enveloping, suspecting that Athos would never want others to see him in such a miserable state.

Returning to the rooms above, he beckoned over one of the men. 

Five years of war had made a very capable soldier out of Jacques, and he was one of those Porthos had in mind as his successor, except for the fact he was still a little soft-hearted and Porthos wondered privately if the role might not do him any favours.

"You find a body?" Jacques asked in surprise, looking at the still figure in Porthos' arms.

"No, he's alive," Porthos said. "Another prisoner. Look, I want you to take some men, search this place from top to bottom."

"Okay. What are we looking for?"

"Anywhere else a man might be stashed away like this one was. I want to be absolutely certain we've left no one behind. Dead or alive."

Jacques nodded. "Okay. I can do that." 

Porthos cleared his throat. "You might, er, find a more recent corpse in the dungeons."

Jacques just raised an eyebrow. "I _thought_ you'd gone down there with a guide."

"Yeah, well. Turns out I didn't much like his directions."

Outside Porthos commandeered a cart to transport the liberated prisoners back to the camp. Most were fairly recent captives and had been in the fortress only a matter of weeks, but many had been in manacles and had difficulty walking. Athos though, he refused to relinquish and lifted him up onto his own horse, cradling him protectively in front of him. 

The weather was dry but very cold, and Porthos could feel Athos shivering against him. He was glad he'd wrapped Athos in the thick cloak, and unfastened his doublet to share his body warmth as best he could. Athos was barefoot, clad only in the ragged remains of a shirt and breeches, and stank to high heaven. Porthos didn't mind the smell, or the funny looks he was getting from some of the other men. By some miracle Athos was alive, and for now that was all that mattered. 

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Back at the camp, Porthos carried Athos into his quarters. The regiment had taken over a large farmhouse as its base of operations, and while the land all around was taken up with tents and the temporary structures of what was now nearly two years' occupation, Porthos had a chamber in the house itself as a combined bedroom and office.

It had in fact originally been Athos' room, and Porthos hoped it might spark some kind of recognition from him but Athos seemed as lost and vulnerable as ever.

Porthos closed the shutters against the bright daylight, and stuck his head out of the door again to send various people running for hot water for a bath, and something to eat.

Athos had crawled into a corner of the room, hiding completely under Porthos' cloak, and for the moment Porthos let him stay there until people had stopped coming in and out. 

Finally there was a steaming wooden tub standing ready on the flagstones, and a bowl of stewed apples and honey waiting on the table. Porthos barred the door against any more visitors and stripped down to his shirtsleeves.

"Athos?" He approached on hands and knees, not wanting to startle him. "Come on then. Time to clean you up, yeah? Wouldn't you like that?" Instinctively treating him like a frightened animal, coaxing him softly out from under the cloak.

Porthos wasn't sure if Athos understood what he was saying, but he did at least respond to Porthos' calming tone of voice and eventually let Porthos carefully undress him. Having seemingly made the decision to cooperate, Athos was now utterly pliant under his hands and made no attempt to cover himself when Porthos peeled away what was left of his breeches. 

Porthos wondered sadly if his mind was simply broken beyond all repair, but dismissed the idea as soon as it had formed. He'd given up hope once before, and look where that had lead. He was determined that he wouldn't let Athos down a second time.

Now that Athos was naked Porthos could see he was covered in festering sores, and winced. Also, beneath the ingrained dirt he could make out the deeper marks of scar tissue and he stared in horror, seeing more everywhere he looked. He knew Athos hadn't had this many scars before he went missing, and realised with a sinking heart what it meant. Athos had been tortured, and by the looks of it extensively. No wonder he'd retreated into himself, Porthos thought. The only question was, had he gone too far to come back? 

Testing the water temperature, he gently lifted Athos into the tub, supporting him with his arm, and soothing him when Athos made noises of distress. 

"It's okay. It's okay. There, isn't that better?" Porthos began the long process of gradually cleaning him up, gently but persistently washing away the months of dried blood and sweat and filth. He washed Athos' matted hair and beard as best he could, although concluded that the best thing would be to clip most of it off.

When he lifted Athos out again the water was virtually black, but Athos was mostly clean. Porthos wrapped him in a robe and towelled him dry, before daubing ointment on the worst of his sores.

Athos let him do as he liked, passive but watchful. He only flinched once when the paste stung sharply in an open wound, making a pained noise in his throat. Porthos apologised at once, still unsure if Athos understood his words, but relieved when the look of startled betrayal faded from his eyes.

"You hungry?" Porthos asked, offering him the bowl of stewed apple. He must be, Porthos thought, if he'd not been fed for days. Athos eyed the bowl with a certain covetous desire, but was clearly too nervous to take it.

"Here." Porthos loaded up a spoon and offered it to him. After a second Athos consented to open his mouth and Porthos tipped it carefully inside.

Athos sucked experimentally at the mouthful of sweet mush and swallowed - and then Porthos almost laughed out loud at the expression on his face. Athos' eyes had gone wide and he looked up at Porthos in disbelief, as if he'd performed a startling feat of magic.

"You like that?" Porthos grinned. It occurred to him that Athos had probably lived on nothing but thin gruel or watery stew for months, and this simple concoction was nothing short of a mind-blowing taste explosion. "You want some more?"

He loaded up the spoon again, and gave a snort of laughter as Athos immediately opened his mouth obediently. 

"You'd better not be winding me up you bastard," Porthos smiled, slowly feeding him the rest of the bowl. 

In truth though, he'd have given anything for Athos to be pulling his leg. Sadly it was obvious Athos was in a far, far worse state than he'd anticipated, and Porthos was at a loss as to what to do for the best. 

When Athos had finished eating and drunk a little water, Porthos pulled out the truckle bed and settled Athos down in it to rest. He was asleep within minutes, apparently exhausted by his ordeal of rescue. Porthos sat on his own bed and watched Athos for a long while, as if he might otherwise somehow vanish as soon as Porthos took his eyes off him.

\--

Eventually, Porthos left Athos sleeping and went back out to attend to the various tasks he'd been neglecting. With the breaking of camp there was a lot to be organised, and as much as he would have preferred to spend the afternoon just looking after Athos, he still had everyone else's needs to consider as well.

He'd hoped Athos would stay asleep while he was gone, and sure enough when Porthos returned after a couple of hours to his relief Athos was still lying in the bed. He was restless though, twisting a little and murmuring in his sleep, and as Porthos bent over to try and soothe him he was assailed by the sharp stench of urine, and realised with a sinking heart that Athos had pissed himself.

Groaning, he gently woke Athos from his troubled sleep and helped him out of the bed, patiently cleaning him up again and dressing him in one of Porthos' own nightshirts. It was ridiculously large on him, particularly with Athos' emaciated figure, but at least it was clean. Porthos had a feeling Athos' own clothes were still around somewhere, packed away in a trunk, and made a mental note to find them. He'd refused to let the men pick them over, and now was glad he had.

He stripped off the soiled bedding and bundled it up in the corner before turning to Athos with a sigh. Athos was sitting patiently on Porthos bed by this point, watching him with a wary look that suggested he knew somehow he'd done wrong but wasn't sure why or what his punishment would be.

Porthos wondered if the loss of control had been an involuntary act on the part of Athos' body, in which case there wasn't a lot he could do for him, or if it was just that after a year in the pit Athos had simply stopped caring. 

If this was the case there was a chance he could be re-trained to keep himself clean. Porthos' one thread of hope was that Athos was at least not a drooling imbecile; he was watching him all the time, and there was definitely a spark of awareness there. Whether Athos remembered who he was or not, he had always had a sharp mind. It should surely be possible to make him understand.

"Look, you use the pot, okay?" Porthos told him, pulling it out from under the bed and gesturing between it and his crotch. "When you need to go?" He mimed pulling himself out and taking a piss, and then crouched over it and pretended to take a shit. "Like this."

He wasn't entirely sure the lesson had gone in, but Athos hadn't taken his eyes off him the whole time. Porthos felt like Athos was trying to understand, he just wasn't sure that he did. Porthos figured that sooner or later Athos would witness him using it himself anyway, and maybe that would provide a better example.

Porthos settled next to Athos on the bed and put an arm round him, taking care not to make him jump. "It's okay," he said quietly. "I know it must be scary for you right now. But it's okay. You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you, ever again. And if I have to spend the rest of my life wiping your arse, then so be it." He sighed. He'd prayed and prayed for Athos to be found alive, and now his prayers had been answered. He vowed to himself that however hard things got, he would never be ungrateful for it.

\--

The following day Porthos was directing operations from one of the tents outside the farmhouse when there came the sound of approaching hooves and a minute or so later the canvas was pushed back to reveal Minister Treville.

"Is it true?" he demanded, before Porthos could get a word out. "Is it him?"

"Bloody hell." Porthos got to his feet. "I wish I had a horse that travelled as fast as gossip does round here." He hadn't technically told anyone the identity of the man he had his room, but various people came and went from his quarters all the time, and he suspected he might have carelessly used Athos' name in front some of them.

"Is it though?" Treville asked, incredulous but hopeful. "Is it Athos?"

"Yeah." Porthos sighed. "Yeah, it is."

"But?" Treville picked up on his caution and feared the worst. 

"He's not in a good way," Porthos admitted heavily. "I mean - I think he'll live, at least if the cough don't get him - but it's his mind. He doesn't remember who he is. Doesn't recognise me."

"I'm sorry." Treville looked sober. "That must be very hard for you. Do you think - there's any hope?"

"There's always hope," Porthos said staunchly. 

"Of course." Treville nodded. "May I see him?"

Porthos lead him into the house and unlocked the door to his room. He'd kept it secure not so much to stop Athos wandering, as he'd shown no inclination to leave the room whatsoever, but to stop other people bothering him when Porthos wasn't around.

Athos was curled up in the middle of Porthos' bed, but he sat up when they came in and shuffled nervously away. Most of the people who came and went merely threw him the occasional curious glance, but to be the focus of a stranger's attention was unnerving. 

"Hey, it's okay," Porthos murmured, sitting next to him and holding out an arm. "Nobody's going to hurt you." He was more touched than he could express when Athos chose to huddle against his side rather than retreat completely. The fact that Athos already trusted Porthos to protect him made unexpected tears well up behind his eyes, and he had to take a deep breath before he could continue.

"Well, here he is" he said to Treville, who was regarding Athos with a look of deep sadness. "The light hurts his eyes," Porthos explained, seeing Treville glance at the shuttered windows. "I think he must have been kept in the pitch dark for months."

Porthos had clipped off most of Athos' filthy beard and hair, leaving just a bristly growth behind, and he was clean and dressed in some of his own clothes, but even so he presented a forlorn picture. He was thin to the point of starvation and covered in sores and scars, but Porthos knew the hardest thing for Treville to come to terms with would be the complete lack of recognition in Athos' eyes. 

"Hello Athos," Treville said softly, leaning forward. Athos flinched, and pressed harder into Porthos' protective embrace, turning away and hiding his face in the folds of Porthos' shirt.

Treville sighed, stepping back to give Athos back some space. "You're right," he murmured regretfully. "He's really gone."

Porthos shook his head stubbornly. "He's still in there somewhere," he argued. "I know he is."

"Porthos - "

"No. I'm not giving up on him," Porthos interrupted. "And - look, I'm not coming back to Paris now. I can't. He needs peace and quiet, somewhere he can recover, find his way back."

"Where will you go?"

Porthos shrugged. "Don't know. Haven't got that far yet."

"And what will you live on?"

Porthos glowered. "Stop asking me complicated questions. Look, all I can think about right now is Athos, okay? Everything else will just have to follow on."

Treville sat down in the chair at Porthos' desk. "What you're proposing - do you have any idea how much work he'll be? Look at him, he's like a child. Can he even feed himself? When you said - " he broke off and sighed. "I hadn't realised quite how bad he was. I've seen men like this before, shattered by battle. There's rarely any hope for them. But there are places that will take him in."

Porthos hugged Athos fiercely, startling a noise of protest out of him. "They'd lock him away," he argued. "They wouldn't try and _help_ him. No, he stays with me."

Seeing his mind was made up, Treville gave in and smiled at him. "Then I can think of no better hands to leave him in," he said softly.

\--

A week passed. The camp was down to the last company of men, the rest having set off on the long journey back to Paris, and most of the stores and armaments had been moved out. 

Porthos was settled in his quarters, having just helped Athos to eat his evening meal when there was a knock on the door. 

To his surprise it was Treville again, and Porthos let him in with an enquiring smile.

"You want your old job back or something?" he asked, waving him in and pouring him a glass of brandy. "Suddenly you can't stay away from the place."

Treville laughed, accepting the drink gratefully. "I would give a lot to have it back," he admitted. "Sadly I think it would be a long way beyond me now."

"Never know till you try." Porthos grinned. "So to what do I owe the pleasure then? Or have you just come to wave us off?"

Treville looked across at where Athos was watching him from the corner of the room he'd retreated into when Treville came in.

"You're still determined to do this?" Treville asked softly.

"I am." Porthos bridled slightly, expecting another attempt to dissuade him, but Treville merely nodded. 

"In view of your decision to resign your commission there is nothing I can do as far as you're concerned, but I have managed to arrange for a war pension to be paid to Athos," he said quietly. "He has lost his health in service of the crown, and the crown is suitably grateful." 

Porthos stared at him in amazement. Louis was not known for his gratitude. "How did you wangle that?" he asked, impressed. "Slip him something extra to sign with the accounts did you?"

Treville gave him a reproving glare that hid the amusement he felt. "I resent the implication I 'wangle' anything," he retorted, before softening his tone. "As it happens, in this case I didn't have to. The money will be paid not from the King's coffers, but by the Queen. She has a rather longer memory than some."

For a second Porthos was hardly able to reply, feeling abruptly choked up. "Then please convey to her my sincere gratitude on Athos' behalf," he said formally. "As he is unable to."

Treville nodded. "It's not a huge amount, but if you live modestly it will be enough to keep body and soul together." He hesitated. "The Queen - was very sorry to hear of Athos' condition. And has offered the use of her court physicians, if you would like them to examine him?"

Porthos was startled, but instinctively shook his head. "Have him poked and prodded by a bunch of quacks?" he objected. "They'll just let out what blood the poor bastard's got left in him and frighten him half to death in the process. No, I'll look after him. But - thank her majesty for the offer," he added awkwardly.

"I have. I rather suspected that would be your answer," Treville said dryly. He drained his glass and got up to leave again.

"I won't keep you. You must have things to prepare, and I think my being here is upsetting Athos. Write to me when you are settled, and I will arrange for the money to find you."

Porthos clasped his hand gratefully. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "For everything."

Treville nodded, then turned back for a moment at the door. "Porthos - I want you to know that there is no shame in failure. If it ever gets too much, if you can't cope, if it becomes apparent he will never recover his mind after all - or if, God forbid, he doesn't make it. I will always be able to find a place for you, Porthos. Never be afraid to come to me if you need anything."

Porthos nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Treville embraced him warmly before taking his leave. "Good luck to you both," he murmured.

When he'd gone, Porthos coaxed Athos back out to sit with him in front of the hearth, and wrapped a blanket around him.

"We'll be okay," Porthos murmured to him. "You'll see. I won't let anyone take you away from me Athos. We'll go somewhere nice and quiet, and you'll get better." He smiled down at where Athos had curled up against his leg, head resting sleepily in his lap, and stroked his fuzzy scalp. 

He knew Treville secretly believed it was a futile exercise, but he couldn't bring himself to even entertain the idea of giving Athos up into someone else's care. And then there was the heartening knowledge that after a few more accidents, Athos had got the hang of using the chamber pot in a matter of days. He still needed help to keep himself properly clean, but it was an improvement that Porthos hadn't dared hope for anywhere near as quickly, and he took it as a good sign. 

He leaned back against the wall and stretched his feet out towards the embers of the fire, idly petting Athos with a gentle hand. Perhaps all was not so lost, after all.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, Porthos took him to Pinon. Not to the house, although he caught a glimpse of ruined chimneys beyond the trees as they approached, but to the village. He could think of nowhere else that might take them in, and reasoned that the people there had every reason to be grateful to Athos. He was fully prepared to remind them of this fact, if need be.

As it happened they were fully welcoming, and genuinely sad to hear of what had befallen Athos. The villagers readily agreed to find the pair of them somewhere to live while he recovered, and in return Porthos promised his own services in any way he could to help them out. 

In the meantime they took a room at the inn, but Athos was clearly bewildered and frightened by the attention he gathered and Porthos was doubly glad he'd made the decision not to take him into the clamour of Paris.

An abandoned cottage was suggested as a potential home for them. The previous owner had died the year before having outlived both his children, and no one had claimed it since due to its inconvenient distance from the rest of the village. 

Porthos accepted the offer as soon as he saw it. The garden was overgrown and the house needed some work, having stood empty for the best part of a year, but it was perfect for their needs. He didn't mind being secluded, didn't want Athos to have to contend with people staring at him all the time. 

It had crossed his mind that taking Athos up to the main house might be the catalyst he needed to spur his memory into returning but in the end decided against it, suspecting the event might be too traumatic in itself. Porthos wanted Athos to recover in his own time, not be shocked beyond all hope of return.

He patched up the worst of the roof leaks, swept out the accumulated debris and moved them both in as soon as he could. It took a while to get things completely organised, but away from other people he found that Athos was far more relaxed, and life wasn't quite as difficult as he'd envisaged it.

Athos continued to need help with most tasks, but on the plus side he didn't require constant supervision. Once Porthos was confident Athos wasn't going to accidentally drown himself in the stream or fall into the fire if he took his eye off him, it freed him up to get a lot more done.

The cottage comprised just two rooms, a living area downstairs with a smaller bed chamber above, under the pitched thatch roof. There was an outhouse to the rear and an enclosed garden all around the house, with a couple of fields off to the side, one of which held a dilapidated stable. Porthos was pleased to discover this, fixing it up and bringing their horses across from the village. It would mean they didn't have to pay for separate stabling.

When they'd left the war encampment, Porthos had tried to get Athos to ride, hoping that being reunited with his old horse might even jog some memories. The horse certainly had seemed to recognise Athos, and stood patiently while Porthos lifted him up into the saddle - but Athos couldn't seem to grasp the concept of holding on, and every time Porthos let him go Athos started to slide off again.

Eventually Porthos gave up and lifted Athos up in front of him on his own horse, leading the other on a long rein. This way too, he found he could load up their belongings better and keep an eye on Athos at the same time. 

Athos didn't object to any of this manhandling. He never objected to anything, remaining utterly biddable and passive, and in some ways that hurt Porthos' heart more than if he'd been stubborn and recalcitrant. It spoke of the fact that at some point Athos' spirit had been utterly broken, and Porthos hated to imagine what might have been done to him, to make him like this. 

There had been a nervousness to him as well at first, as if Athos was constantly expecting a blow or some other form of punishment, and Porthos was careful to keep his voice low and patient at all times. Gradually Athos came to trust him, and consequently also became eager to please. 

At times Porthos could see the frustration in Athos' face, as he struggled to understand what Porthos was telling him, or asking him to do. He was sympathetic, guessing it must be awful for Athos to be trapped in a body and brain that declined to obey him, but Porthos also took hope from it, from the fact that Athos was clearly trying.

At night they slept together in the same bed. There wasn't room for two in any case, and Athos had already stopped having soggy accidents even before they left the camp.

One thing Porthos did now discover was that Athos was afraid of the dark. At the farmhouse there had always been light of some sort - fire in the hearth, burning torches outside the window, candles in the passage outside, or a lamp by the door, as people tended to arrive with news at all hours of the night. 

Here though, over a mile from the next nearest dwelling and surrounded by trees, when Porthos blew the candle out on the first night, they were plunged into utter darkness. Athos immediately gave a thin, wordless cry of distress, and Porthos relit the candle at once, worried he was ill.

Athos blinked at him in the light, breathing hard but seemingly fine, and it was only when Porthos had extinguished the candle a second time that he caught on to what the problem was.

Athos clutched at him, keening with misery, and no amount of soothing words or calming hands would settle him. In the end, Porthos had to leave the candle burning until he fell asleep, and on subsequent nights when Athos woke just as distressed to find himself in darkness, discovered it was easier to leave a light burning all night.

He could hardly blame him, Porthos reflected. To Athos, the darkness must bring back memories of that hideous pit, and maybe even made him think he was back there. An expense in candles and lamp oil was a small price to pay for Athos' peace of mind.

The second thing that came to disturb their nights was when Athos abruptly started having nightmares.

For the first few weeks after his rescue, Athos had slept deeply and peacefully, rarely waking in the night. Now though, he was suddenly wracked by violent night terrors, and Porthos was regularly jerked awake by Athos either thrashing about or whimpering and moaning in his sleep. 

At first Porthos wondered what had so suddenly triggered them, worried that something about their life here was upsetting Athos, however unconsciously - but he gradually realised that it was probably more to do with a belated reaction to his rescue. Perhaps in the pit Athos hadn't had bad dreams. What could be worse than where he already was, after all? 

The worst dreams to have had down there, Porthos imagined, would have been ones where Athos dreamed he was free. Had he dreamed of daylight and fresh air when he was down there? Had he dreamed of his friends? How long had it been, Porthos wondered, before Athos gave up all hope of being rescued? How long had he clung to the belief that someone would come for him? Or had he already lost his mind when he was thrown down there in the first place? Porthos almost hoped that was the case, because the alternative was too painful to consider.

This, he suspected, was Athos finally coming to accept that he was free, to believing that it was over. This was the time that the nightmares would seize him, now there was somewhere hideous his sleeping brain could send him back to.

Initially Porthos tried to wake Athos from each of these fits, but it could be hard, and Athos was always disoriented and upset. Porthos discovered a more effective way to calm him was simply to roll over and take Athos into his arms, settling back to sleep pressed along Athos' back, holding him to his chest. 

Some combination of the warmth of Porthos' body and the rise and fall of his breathing would comfort Athos enough, whether he was asleep or awake, to settle back into peaceful sleep.

Eventually, having woken so many times in Porthos' arms, Athos started to naturally seek the warmth of his embrace as soon as Porthos joined him in bed, and it soon became their practice to go to sleep already curled up together.

As spring unfurled outside, Porthos dug over the garden and planted vegetables, pruning back the tangle of briars and old brambles and uncovering to his satisfaction several fruit trees and bushes. The house was in good order now, the floors scrubbed and holes patched, and a decent stack of firewood laid by.

Athos, too, seemed to flourish with the season. He was by now completely used to full strength light again, and would sit for hours in the sunshine with his face tilted up to feel the warmth. 

To Porthos' delight Athos could even manage a few words now. They were hardly holding lengthy conversations, but Athos could make himself understood, as well as call Porthos by name to get his attention, and would answer to his own. Athos could follow instructions too, as long as Porthos kept them clear and simple, and rarely needed to be shown how to do something twice.

The evenings they spent together by the hearth and Porthos would tell Athos stories, mostly tall tales and fairy tales, but also stories of their lives, and the exploits they had once got up to. He was never quite sure if Athos followed these stories, but he seemed to find the sound of Porthos' voice soothing, and would listen to him with a captivated expression.

As the weeks became months, and spring blossomed into summer, Porthos slowly became resigned to the fact that Athos was probably never going to remember who he was. He found the idea pained him less than it once had. They were happy enough, in their simple existence. 

On the infrequent occasions Porthos felt in need of a proper conversation or a jar of ale in convivial company he would go into the village, but he never stayed long. Even less frequently, he would walk to the church and make confession, but he never made Athos go. He wouldn't have understood what was happening, and Porthos reasoned that in any case he'd spent a whole year in a very literal hell. That surely bought him some kind of spiritual credit. 

Sometimes when they heard the bells of the church across the fields Porthos would sit Athos down and recite a prayer or two, more from a sense of wanting to offer thanks for Athos being given back to him than any lingering guilt from not attending services. They'd neither of them been especially devout to begin with, they'd always left that side of things to Aramis.

Occasionally when Porthos went into the village there would be some post waiting for him at the inn, sometimes a packet from Treville and sometimes a letter from Aramis. Porthos had written to him to tell of Athos' miraculous return from the dead, and since then they had revived a rather more friendly correspondence, Aramis demanding to know all the minutiae of Athos' progress.

It was a morning near midsummer, and Porthos was downstairs raking out the ashes of the previous night's cooking fire when he sensed a movement behind him and straightened up to find Athos hovering uncertainly at the foot of the stairs.

"Porthos?"

He looked lost and bewildered, and was holding onto the stair post as if unsteady on his feet, and Porthos' initial assumption was that he'd had a nightmare, completely missing the note of interrogation in his voice.

"What is it sweetheart?"

Athos blinked. "Sweetheart?" he repeated, sounding confused but amused, and Porthos stared at him in dawning realisation.

"Athos?" he asked hoarsely. "Athos - do you know me?"

Athos looked uncertain. "Well of course I know you," he said. He looked around, frowning. "Where is everyone? Where are we?"

"They've gone home," Porthos said carefully. "The war's over." Wondering as he said it if Athos even remembered the war, but Athos nodded slowly and Porthos offered him a tentative smile. "We won?"

"Oh. Good." Athos ventured a little further into the room, still looking confused. "Where are we?" he asked again.

"Safe," Porthos hedged, remembering that historically Athos hadn't reacted too well to discovering he'd been taken back to his estate.

"Have I been ill?" 

"Something like that. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been asleep for a hundred years."

"Not far from the truth."

"What happened to me?"

"You don't remember?"

Athos frowned. "I remember - being at the camp," he said. "There was - something I had to do. Then - " His frown deepened. "I can't remember after that." He shivered suddenly. "I'm not sure I want to."

"You were taken by the Spanish," Porthos explained calmly. "I think they tortured you. You were left in a dungeon for months. Almost a year. By the time I found you, you didn't know who you were any more. You didn't know who I was. I brought you here to rest. See if a bit of peace and quiet would help you. I guess it did," he realised, with a note of surprise.

Athos faltered. "You've been looking after me." It wasn't a question, and he looked suddenly guilty.

"Yeah," said Porthos softly. "Didn't trust anyone else to do it properly."

Athos gave him a faint smile. "Thank you," he breathed. "I must have been a heavy burden."

"One I was quite willing to carry." Porthos could feel tears pricking at his eyes. "Athos, I'm sorry. I should have found you sooner."

Athos looked surprised, then smiled. "You found me. I'm grateful for that," he said. He wandered slowly round the room, as if seeing it for the first time, which Porthos supposed in a way he was.

"This is Aramis' writing?" Athos had picked up a folded letter from the dresser and was looking at it curiously.

"Yeah. Uh - " Porthos reached out then drew his hand back again. There was theoretically nothing contained within it that Athos shouldn't see, but it was talking almost exclusively about him, and Porthos was embarrassed.

Athos though, seemed to realise that he was snooping in someone's private correspondence, and put the letter down again. "Sorry."

"No, no, it's okay. You can read them if you like." 

Athos let his fingers flick idly through the sheaf of letters wedged behind a ceramic pot, and in between the pages of Aramis' elaborate looping hand he spotted some sheets in a smaller, more business-like style.

"Treville?" he said, lifting one out a little way to be sure.

"Yeah. They've both been writing to see how you're getting on. They'll be really pleased to know you're feeling better."

Athos was still flipping through the stack of letters, as if looking for something else. "Nothing from d'Artagnan?" he asked finally.

Porthos' heart sank. He didn't know what to say, but in the end his silence was eloquent enough. Athos turned round when he didn't answer, and saw his expression.

"Oh." His face fell. "I see."

"D'Artagnan went missing the same time as you did," Porthos confessed. "We never saw him again. I'm sorry, Athos."

Athos shook his head. "Not even when you found me?" he ventured, but there was no hope in his voice.

"There was no sign. I searched again, everywhere I could think, but there was never any trace of him. I was kind've hoping you might be able to tell me what happened," Porthos admitted.

Athos looked unhappily at him. "I'm sorry," he said faintly. "I don't - I can't - remember."

"It's okay. Don't force it. If it's meant to come back, it will." 

"He was a good man," Athos said quietly. "A good friend." A tear forced its way out and was halfway down his cheek before he dashed it away. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Porthos ached to take Athos into his arms, but somehow he couldn't. "I've had a year and more to mourn him. You've only just found out." He laid a comforting hand on Athos' shoulder, the nearest he could get to the hug he wanted to give him. 

"I tell you what though," Porthos said, remembering something. "There is someone here who'd like to see you."

"Who?" Athos looked suspicious, but Porthos just smiled at him, and reached for his hand.

"Come and see." He lead Athos out of the house and round to the field, ushering him into the stable. 

Athos' horse whickered softly when he saw him, and Athos stopped in his tracks. "Oh," he said quietly. "Oh, Porthos."

Porthos patted him gently on the back. "I'll leave you two to get reacquainted," he said, pleased. "You know where I am, okay? If you need me." 

It was some time later when Athos came slowly back into the house, and Porthos was pleased to see he looked a little happier. Athos hesitated, then picked up the bundle of letters. "May I?" he asked.

"Yeah. Course." Porthos nodded, and Athos retreated upstairs with them.

Porthos was sitting in the garden with his back against an old stone wall, peeling vegetables for a stew and enjoying the sun, when Athos came outside again a couple of hours later.

He came slowly over and sat down next to Porthos without a word, but after a second he rested his head on Porthos' shoulder. 

"How long have we been here?" Athos asked. Porthos smiled down at him, touched by the instinctive gesture that felt more like recent Athos than old Athos.

"A few months. Four? Nearly five, maybe. Don't you remember any of it?"

"A little. It's fuzzy. Like a dream." Athos looked at him. "I remember your voice, I think. Did you read to me?"

Porthos smiled. "Sometimes. I'd tell you stories. You seemed to like it."

Athos seemed to consider this. "I read the letters," he said finally. "Has Treville been sending money?"

"From the Queen," Porthos nodded. "She made sure you got a war pension."

"And you?" Athos looked up at him and Porthos shrugged.

"Nah."

"Why not?" Athos sounded indignant, and Porthos smiled. It had been a long time since Athos had got angry with someone on his behalf, but he found it still stirred a warm feeling inside.

"Because I resigned my commission," Porthos admitted softly.

"What! Why?" Athos stared at him, but even as he asked the question he guessed the answer. "Oh, no. You left the regiment to look after me."

"Yes. No. I was going to anyway," Porthos told him. "Five years of senseless slaughter - I'd had enough. There was no honour in it any more. And I'd lost you, and d'Artagnan. I'd already told Treville. And then I found you, still alive, and maybe that was a sign. That there was something better I could be doing with my life. I don't regret it."

"You could still go back," Athos said. "It's surely not too late, Treville would arrange things, he would."

"Yeah, probably." Porthos looked at him and smiled fondly. "Not yet though. You're not nearly strong enough to face Paris yet, however much you want to pout at me."

"I was not pouting," Athos objected.

Porthos smirked. "Were too. Here, think you can manage to peel this lot without cutting your thumb off?"

Athos gave him a look, but he accepted the pan of vegetables and the paring knife, and began carefully scraping while Porthos looked on with approval.

"Porthos?"

"Yeah?"

"If I ask you a question, will you give me a straight answer?"

"Yeah. I guess. What's up?"

Athos looked sideways at him. "Where are we?"

Porthos blew out a sigh. He'd known this was coming, but hadn't been sure exactly how familiar Athos had been with obscure corners of his estate. 

"Pinon," he admitted.

"Oh God." Athos groaned, and Porthos glared at him.

"I didn't know where else to bring you, okay? I needed somewhere that would take us in, somewhere quiet. They've been good to us."

Athos sighed. "Does Catherine know I'm here?"

"Don't think so. The villagers have kept it pretty quiet. I'm not even sure she's still around. No, I'm certain she doesn't know. She'd have been round here like flies on meat otherwise."

"Oh, thanks." Athos gave him a reproachful look and Porthos burst out laughing.

"Sorry. But you know what I mean." He fidgeted with the pan handle. "I'm sorry Athos," he said more quietly. "If there'd been anywhere else - "

"It's okay." Athos shook his head. "I understand. I'm sorry if I sounded ungrateful."

Porthos looked at him. "I thought you were dead," he said in a small voice. "I thought I'd lost you Athos. For so long."

Athos put down the knife and pushed the pan out of the way, shifting close enough that his arm was pressed against Porthos' and leaning back against the wall in the sunshine. "You should know by now, some people are harder to shake off than others," he murmured, and Porthos gave him a watery smile, blinking back tears.

"Amen to that," Porthos said softly. 

\--


	4. Chapter 4

When they went to bed that night, Porthos hesitated before undressing. "We've been sharing," he said, rather unnecessarily. "Is that okay? I mean, I can sleep downstairs if you'd prefer?"

Athos looked surprised. "After taking care of me for months it would be rather unkind to evict you from your own bed," he said. "No, of course I don't mind. We've shared before, anyway."

"Yeah." Porthos climbed in next to him, suppressing a sigh. He was happy - ecstatic, over the moon - to have Athos back, but he'd forgotten how remote Athos sometimes managed to feel, even when he was right next to you. Ordinarily Porthos would have been settling down with Athos in his arms right now, and he missed it more than he'd thought he would. He wondered if Athos felt there was something missing too, even if he didn't know what it was. 

"How are you feeling?" Porthos asked after a while, hearing Athos give a quiet sigh.

"I keep trying to remember the rest," Athos admitted, turning onto his side to face him. The summer evening meant there was still a little light coming through the window in the gable end, and Porthos had lit a candle as usual.

"There's over a year that I don't remember," Athos sighed. "It must be in there somewhere."

Porthos looked at him sympathetically. "I imagine it wasn't a very pleasant time," he said. "Maybe you'd be better off not remembering."

"You don't know what it's like," Athos said. "There's a hole in my mind, and that frightens me as much as what I might have forgotten."

Porthos almost reached out to him then; hearing Athos admit he was afraid of anything made his heart hurt. But he restrained himself, still unsure if Athos would welcome physical affection. 

"It could still come back to you," he said instead. "I was starting to think that you'd gone too far to ever come back at all, and now look at you."

Athos smiled at him. "Maybe I heard you calling me," he said softly.

Porthos really was on the brink then of moving closer and taking Athos into his arms, but Athos moved a fraction of a second before he did.

"Night Porthos," Athos murmured, and turned over to go to sleep. Porthos stared at his back with the feeling of an opportunity missed, and sighed.

\--

In the morning, whether they had sought each other unconsciously in sleep, or merely rolled together into the natural hollow their bodies had formed in the bed, Porthos woke to discover that he was lying against Athos anyway, his arm around his waist.

After a second he realised with a certain amount of embarrassment that Athos was awake, and cleared his throat, moving back a little and withdrawing his arm. "Sorry."

"That's alright," Athos told him sleepily. "It was rather nice."

Porthos would have wriggled back again, but Athos yawned and sat up before he could. 

"Sleep okay?" Porthos enquired. Athos' nightmares had become less frequent lately, and he didn't think that he'd woken in the night, but who knew how getting his memory back would affect him.

"I did, thank you." Athos rubbed his face, and stretched his shoulders. "No dreams, that I remember," he added, as if reading Porthos' mind. 

They spent the day quietly, and those that that followed were much the same. While Athos' memory had returned, it had also left him a little unsteady and confused, and Porthos found him more than once staring helplessly at a simple task, completely unable to work out what he needed to do.

Athos apologised profusely at these times, humiliated and frustrated with himself, but Porthos followed him about with endless patience, guiding him and murmuring prompts and advice.

Porthos knew he should write to Aramis and Treville and tell them of Athos' improvement, but whilst part of him was bursting to share the news, another part was afraid he might jinx things, and he held off. He would give it a few weeks, he decided, until he was confident Athos was in no danger of a relapse.

Thus it came as something of a surprise when one morning a rider could be heard approaching up the track, and a minute later none other than Treville appeared in the open doorway. 

"I hope I'm not intruding?" he smiled, and Porthos gave him a bellow of welcome.

"Whatever are you doing here?" Porthos demanded, delighted. 

"Oh, I had some business in the vicinity so I thought I'd ride over," Treville told him. "It wasn't much of a detour out of my way." He looked around, nodding in approval at the clean but cosy interior and clearly looking for Athos. "How's our lad?"

Porthos grinned. "Better. Much better. His memory's come back, mostly. He's out in the garden somewhere, fetching stuff for lunch, didn't you see him?" 

"No," said Treville, surprised. "But I suppose I wasn't looking."

At that moment a shadow fell across the doorway and they looked up to find Athos standing there.

"Hello," he said to Treville, looking hesitant and unaccustomedly shy.

"Athos!" Treville smiled at him in surprise at the marked improvement. The last time he'd seen Athos, he'd been starved and shorn, huddling in a corner of a room, and he'd never dared hope to see such a dramatic change in him. 

It was at this point Porthos abruptly noticed Athos was bleeding, and clutching one of his hands to himself in an attempt to stop blood dripping onto the flagstones.

"Athos! What have you done, you great ninny?" Porthos demanded, hurrying over to him.

Athos cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "The knife slipped," he admitted. In fact, the sudden and unexpected appearance of Treville as he was crouched in the vegetable patch had startled him, and he'd lost concentration for a moment.

"Let me see." Porthos turned his hand over, frowning.

"Ow!" Athos protested, as Porthos lead him by the wrist over to where he could clean the wound and wrap it in a bandage, relieved to see the cut wasn't deep.

Athos gave Treville a sheepish look. "I'm afraid I lack something of my old skill with a blade," he murmured.

Treville gave a bark of laughter. "I am glad to see you looking so well Athos. I had not thought to find you in such good health." He watched with a certain sympathetic amusement, both at the sight of Porthos fussing over Athos like a mother hen, and Athos letting him do it with such docile good humour.

"You'll stay for lunch?" Porthos asked once Athos was safely patched up, and Treville accepted with pleasure.

Athos stayed mostly quiet as they ate, seeming a little overwhelmed by the additional company, but nowhere near as nervous as Porthos had got used to seeing him with other people. Porthos encouraged Treville to talk instead, rather than ply Athos with questions he might not want to answer, and he willingly regaled them with tales from the Court, and the city.

"So were you really just passing?" Porthos asked eventually, with a smile.

Treville spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Actually, I have something of a dilemma. Gossard is not proving to be a popular captain, amongst the men. In fact - they have presented me with a petition asking for his removal."

Porthos winced. "I knew he'd be hard, but I hoped he wouldn't be unfair." He sighed. "If you've come for my advice, give Jacques the job. I'd feared he was too soft for it, but maybe it's what he needs after all. And everyone likes him."

"Yes." Treville nodded slowly, then hesitated. "Actually, I was wondering if you might - "

Porthos frowned. "Athos, why don't you fetch us those strawberries you picked earlier?" he interrupted. Athos got up obediently, but he was still listening as he crossed the room.

"No," said Porthos in a low voice, "I know what you're going to ask me and the answer's no. My place is here."

"But with Athos so much recovered - "

"Still no. I've made my choice," Porthos insisted. "I'm sorry, but it's not my problem any more."

Treville sat back as Athos returned with the bowl of strawberries and conceded defeat. "If you change your mind..." he murmured.

"Thank you. But I won't."

After lunch Treville took his leave of them, and when he'd gone Athos sagged into a chair with a sudden wave of dizziness. Porthos was at his side in a flash.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Sorry. Just tired." Athos took a deep breath and gave him a look of apology. Porthos patted his hand.

"You must be worn out," he said, realising how much it had probably taken out of Athos to face unexpected company like that, however much improved he was. "Why don't you have a lie down?"

Athos shook his head. "I'm fine." He looked at Porthos with a sober expression, and Porthos frowned.

"What?"

"You were captain, weren't you?" Athos said softly, having worked it out. "Captain of the Musketeers." 

"Yeah, well, someone had to do it, didn't they?" Porthos muttered. "What with you buggering off to laze about in a Spanish dungeon all year."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Athos insisted.

Porthos shrugged uncomfortably. "What difference does it make?"

"You were captain and you gave it up. For me." Athos looked wretched, and Porthos shook his head firmly.

"I told you, I'd already made up my mind to go. You don't have to blame yourself."

"You told me part of your reason for that was that you'd lost me," Athos reminded him, "So, still my fault."

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Fine, everything's your fault, does that make you feel better?" he demanded, then smiled. "Even if it was, which it isn't, I'd still forgive you."

"Treville wants you back, doesn't he?" Athos asked quietly. "That's why he was here."

"Well he can go on wanting," Porthos said firmly. "There's plenty others can do it."

"We could go back," Athos offered. "If you wanted. Paris isn't so bad."

Porthos raised an eyebrow, silently implying that if Athos hadn't managed lunch with one old friend without nearly fainting afterwards, he was unlikely to survive the hustle and bustle of Paris unscathed.

"You'd hardly ever see me," was all he said. "If I took that job back on I'd be gone for hours at a time. Days. No, we're staying here. Maybe one day, but not yet, eh? Besides, what's wrong with this? I like it here."

Athos smiled. "So do I," he confessed. "I just don't want to screw up your life any more than I have to."

Porthos shook his head. "You are my life," he said under his breath.

They looked at each other for a long moment, then Porthos cleared his throat and got to his feet, busying himself clearing away the dishes from their lunch. He finally came back to join Athos, carrying a little bowl of tiny sweet wild strawberries.

"I wondered where they'd gone," Athos said in surprise. He'd looked to set them out for Treville along with the larger ones he'd picked from the garden.

"I saved them for you," Porthos confessed. "I know they're your favourites."

Athos looked at him with unreadable eyes, then picked one out and held it up to Porthos' lips. "Share them with me," he said softly.

\--

It was a night perhaps three days after Treville's visit and they had gone to bed as normal, talking quietly for a while before falling asleep within minutes of each other. 

Some time later though, Porthos was jolted awake by Athos crying out in his sleep, twisting convulsively under the bedclothes. Familiar enough with his nightmares, Porthos reached out for him blearily, hoping to soothe him back into restful sleep, but Athos would not be calmed. 

His frantic thrashing finally came to a head and he woke himself up, sitting bolt upright in bed and breathing harshly. 

"Athos?" Porthos ventured. "You okay? It was just a dream." Glad that he had maintained his custom of keeping a light burning, so that Athos hadn't awakened into the dark.

For a moment there was only the sound of Athos' ragged breathing, then he suddenly threw back the covers and almost fell out of the bed in his haste to climb out. He scrabbled under the bed and a second later Porthos heard him retching pitifully into the chamber pot.

Porthos waited awkwardly until the sounds of vomiting had ceased, before climbing out of bed himself. He found Athos in a heap on the floor, shaking like a dog with fever.

"Athos?" He knelt beside him, gently putting an arm round him. "You okay?" Feeling that this was rather a stupid question, but unsure if Athos was actually ill, or if this was a direct result of whatever dream he'd had.

Athos seemed to be trying to say something, but his words were stumbling over each other, and for a moment he couldn't make himself understood.

"I remember," Athos croaked finally. "I remember everything."

Porthos helped him sit up and wrapped his arms around him, staring at Athos in consternation.

"You remember what happened to you?" he clarified, thinking that if Athos had just been dreaming of being tortured that it was little wonder he'd thrown up.

Athos managed a nod, clinging weakly to the front of Porthos' nightshirt and looking haggard. "To both of us," he whispered, and his face crumpled in anguish. "To d'Artagnan - oh God, d'Artagnan."

"He is dead then?" Porthos guessed.

"They killed him in front of me." There were tears running down Athos' face, but he didn't even seem to notice. "It was my fault." 

Porthos frowned. "No it wasn't. Don't be daft."

"It was. It was," Athos insisted, crying in earnest now, and hardly knowing what to do with himself. "They killed him because of me and I let him die. It's all my fault. Oh God, it was all my fault."

"Hey now, hey." Porthos cradled Athos against him and held him tight, letting Athos cry himself out.

Eventually Athos' sobs quietened into sniffles and Porthos found him a handkerchief, helping him back up to sit more comfortably on the bed.

"I'm sorry," Athos said miserably. 

"It's okay," Porthos soothed him, now that he had Athos in his arms unwilling to let him go again. "You want to talk about it?" he asked tentatively.

Athos shook his head. "You'd hate me," he mumbled. "If I told you what I did."

Porthos squeezed him tight. "Now that's just not true," he whispered. "Whatever happened Athos, whatever you think you were responsible for - whatever you _were_ responsible for - there is nothing I couldn't forgive you." 

He kissed Athos chastely on the temple. "You could sell out the whole damn world, betray everyone you've ever cared for, and I would still forgive you," Porthos promised. "I swear."

Athos looked up with a disbelieving hope, and Porthos smiled at him. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up and find something hot to drink, eh? It's nearly dawn, we might as well get up."

Downstairs, Porthos stoked up the fire and warmed some weak ale, carrying two steaming cups outside to where Athos had fled into the garden in search of fresh air. 

The sun was just coming up, a faint yellow glow through the haze rising from the fields. Athos was sitting on a low wall, looking dazed but calmer. Porthos handed him his drink and draped a shawl around his shoulders, determined he should not catch a chill.

Athos gave him a smile of tired gratitude, and wrapped his shaking fingers around the warm beaker.

"Talk to me Athos," Porthos said quietly, sitting beside him. "Tell me what happened. Don't keep it all inside."

For a long while Athos was silent, trying to make sense of the jumble of agonising memories that had flooded back to him, picking through what was fact and dream.

"We were taken not long after we'd started out," Athos said finally, just as Porthos had decided he wasn't going to speak at all. "I'm not sure what went wrong, I think we were just unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time, and we ran right into a patrol that shouldn't have been there."

He paused, and Porthos shuffled closer on the wall, trying to offer reassurance just through his presence.

"They took us to a fortress," Athos continued, his voice level and emotionless. "Tried to get us to talk. Low level stuff at first, beatings mostly. They wanted to know what we knew, plans, passwords, codes. Things that would let them infiltrate behind our lines."

He stopped again, sipped his drink, staring blindly out at the garden.

"We wouldn't tell them, obviously," Athos said. 

"Obviously," Porthos echoed, trying not to picture what that simple statement really hid, the two men dripping with blood and barely able to stand, bruised and beaten and knowing they faced almost certain death.

"But there was a time factor to it," Athos continued. "They knew if it took too long to break us, the passwords would have been changed and anything we could tell them would be worthless. So they changed their tactics. They told me that if I didn't give them what they wanted, they would kill d'Artagnan."

Athos faltered, and had to put down the beaker because his hand was shaking too much. 

Porthos sighed. Athos had already told him how this ended, and now he was starting to see why Athos blamed himself. 

"If you'd told them," he said quietly, "you'd have endangered tens, maybe hundreds of lives."

"I know." Athos' voice was low and hopeless. "That was the dilemma I faced. The safety of the men under my command, the men who trusted me, that I was responsible for. Or the life of one of my best friends."

"You didn't talk?" Porthos hazarded.

Athos shook his head. "How could I?" His voice shaking now, the tight control breaking down again. "If he'd asked me - if he'd asked me, just once, to save him, I would have. I'd have betrayed everyone, everything, even you," Athos blurted miserably, the tears starting to fall again. He broke off, face buried in his hands and Porthos couldn't stand it any longer, but put his arms around him.

"D'Artagnan was there?" was all he asked. "While they were saying all this to you?"

"Yes. They kept us together," Athos said. "I suppose they thought it would work better, that one of us would crack to save the other."

"Only to discover they'd captured the two most stubborn bastards in the whole French army." Porthos gave a mirthless laugh, whilst aching for Athos with all his heart.

Athos managed a dejected smile at that. 

"They killed him in front of me," he said, more calmly now, wiping the tears away with his wrist. "Stabbed him. Over and over." He took a shuddering breath. "I think they realised they'd made a mistake, then. They'd lost their bargaining chip, and I no longer cared what happened to me. They went back to torturing me, in earnest this time. I didn't care. I welcomed the pain, the punishment, anything and everything they could do to me."

"Oh Athos." Porthos felt like crying himself, but was resolved to stay strong for Athos' sake.

"They broke me, eventually," Athos admitted. "By then I didn't know who I was, where I was, what I was saying. I like to think I'd held out long enough to make anything I told them worthless." He gave Porthos a questioning look, and Porthos nodded.

"We certainly never had any breaches of security like that would have caused," he confirmed. "A few attempts that never came to anything. You did it, Athos. You kept us safe."

Athos nodded, but there was no satisfaction in it, and Porthos turned to face him, holding him tight by the arms.

"It wasn't your fault," Porthos said seriously. "Do you hear me? Any more than it would have been d'Artagnan's fault if they'd killed you. You did your duty, and you know damn well that's what d’Artagnan would have wanted."

"Doesn't make me feel any better," Athos breathed.

"I know." Porthos sighed. "I know. And I know how much it must hurt. But it won't always. Not so much. I promise."

Athos sagged against him then in defeated exhaustion, and Porthos hugged him close. "I promise," he repeated, stroking Athos' hair. "I promise."

\--

Athos was curled up on the wooden settle, fast asleep. He'd resisted Porthos' suggestion that he should go back up to bed, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts, but when Porthos turned around a few minutes later to see why Athos had stopped answering him, he found that Athos had fallen asleep where he sat, emotionally wrung out and utterly exhausted.

Porthos had lain him down on the cushions and covered him with a blanket, watching him with a heavy heart. Athos might have recovered his memories and his sense of self but he still seemed vulnerable, as if all his old walls and defences had been lost along the way. This was an Athos without his hard shell, and Porthos found he was fiercely protective of him.

In a world that had often been harsh and proved all too quick to judge Porthos on the colour of his skin or on where he came from, Athos had been a staunch ally from the moment they met, and Porthos loved him dearly as a comrade and a brother. 

Lately though, Porthos wondered if there wasn't more to it than that, although he couldn't put the way he was feeling into words. He would defend Athos to his last breath, he knew that much. He would die for him if need be, without a second's regret. 

But that was a sacrifice d'Artagnan had already made, Porthos reminded himself. Had he gone willingly to his death, if there was a chance that Athos would then live, Porthos wondered. D'Artagnan had left behind a wife and baby son. Had he thought of them in his last moments, or had it been Athos' name on his lips as he died, no room in that terrible place for anything but the two of them?

With a shock, Porthos realised he felt something akin to a twisted jealousy of d'Artagnan in that moment, and shook himself, getting to his feet. 

He still had to write to Aramis, he remembered, and settled at the table with pen and ink. It would be a mixed letter. Porthos had to tell him that Athos had been restored to them, but also that all hope for d'Artagnan was now lost. 

He would ask Aramis to pray for d'Artagnan, Porthos decided. And perhaps for Athos too. 

He looked across at where Athos was murmuring in a restless sleep, and sighed. He would ask Aramis to pray for all of them.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

One unexpected consequence of Porthos' letter was that Aramis wrote back and asked permission to come and see them. Porthos discussed it with Athos and replied immediately, telling Aramis that of course he was welcome any time he wished to visit. 

So it was that two weeks later, Aramis arrived at their door.

He stood on the threshold, clad in a simple tunic and travelling cloak and gave them a hesitant smile of greeting, unsure perhaps of his welcome. Athos was standing a way back, and it had been Porthos who opened the door. He stared at Aramis now, taking in the sight of him. It had been over five years since they'd laid eyes on him, but of the three of them he seemed to have changed the least. 

Porthos genuinely hadn't been sure how he would feel seeing Aramis again, but all the intervening years seemed to melt away and with them all his lingering resentments. He opened his arms to clasp Aramis to him with a triumphant shout of welcome, and Aramis returned his hug with hearty relief.

Athos embraced him more quietly with a smile of pleasure and Aramis regarded him in wonder.

"I had not thought to see you again in this life my friend," he said emotionally. 

"You could have seen him any time over the last six months," Porthos pointed out dryly. "You knew where he was."

Aramis hung his head. "I owe you both an apology," he admitted. "A lot of apologies."

"No you don't." Athos shook his head, but Porthos folded his arms.

"Yes he does."

"Porthos!"

"No, it's alright." Aramis sighed, meeting Porthos' gaze without rancour. "I know you felt I should have joined you from the start," he said quietly. "That I should have been there to help, and that I should have been there for you when Athos and d'Artagnan went missing. Perhaps you even felt it should have been me instead of one of them."

"No!" Porthos looked honestly shocked. "I never once thought that, how can you say such a thing!"

"But the rest?"

"Yeah," Porthos admitted grudgingly. "Yeah, I might have held that against you."

"We can only any of us act according to our conscience," Athos said quietly, and Aramis smiled.

"I'm not sure Porthos would agree with you. But then, he's never had your ability to make the colder decisions."

"Oi!" Porthos interrupted, angry not on his own account but afraid that Aramis' words would upset Athos in view of what had happened with d'Artagnan. But Athos gestured to Porthos that he was fine, to let it go, and Porthos subsided again.

Aramis gathered his thoughts. "I know you were angry with me for not being at your side. But I had taken a vow, and even today God still outranks the King." He took a deep breath. "But afterwards - you're right. I've been a coward. I could not face seeing you, Athos, the way Porthos described you. I preferred to remember you the way you were," Aramis confessed. 

"There is no shame in that," Athos told him. "I would not have known you, and from what Porthos tells me, visitors only made me fretful anyway."

"I should still have come," Aramis said. "For Porthos if not for you. In attempting to make amends for one mistake I have abandoned my dearest friends in the process, and I cannot ask you to forgive me."

"You don't have to," Athos said immediately. "You know you don't."

Aramis looked at Porthos, who gave a drawn out groan of surrender. "Come here you bastard," he demanded, and pulled Aramis back into a bear hug.

"We should drink to the occasion," Athos said, watching their reconciliation with a smile. "I happen to know Porthos has a very good bottle of elderflower wine."

"I was saving that!" Porthos objected, and Athos smiled at him unrepentantly.

"For what better time, than the three of us reunited, and drinking to d'Artagnan's memory?" he asked.

Porthos conceded. "Yeah," he said. "You're right."

"As usual," Aramis put in, and Porthos laughed.

"You know, there were whole months when he did exactly as I told him," Porthos complained to Aramis, jerking a thumb at Athos. "Imagine that."

"Would you rather have me back that way then?" Athos asked mildly, fetching glasses for the three of them.

Porthos shuddered. "No fear. I like you just the way you are. Insufferable and tetchy," he added, and Athos gave a huff of laughter and appealed to Aramis in mock complaint. 

"You see what I have to put up with?" 

It was Aramis' turn to laugh. "I didn't come here to act as referee," he declared, accepting some wine from Porthos with a smile of thanks. "Let us drink to those we've lost, but also to give thanks for what has been restored to us."

They sat in the garden, and talked and ate and drank and talked some more until the sun was well down and there were bats flitting over their heads. Aramis had taken a room at the inn in the village, and regretfully told them he would need to leave again the following day.

"So soon?" Porthos asked in surprise, and Aramis gave him an embarrassed smile.

"I wasn't quite sure what my reception would be," he admitted. "But I can come back."

"Do," Athos told him. "You will always be welcome here."

They made their goodbyes, and Athos and Porthos watched Aramis walk off down the track towards the village. It was a clear moonlit night, and he had declined their offer of a lamp. As he turned the corner out of sight Porthos felt Athos shiver, and turned to him in concern.

"Are you cold? Let's go in to bed."

Athos shook his head. "Not cold, no. It's silly really. The thought of walking alone in the dark - I'm not sure I could do it. Not any more," he confessed quietly.

"Well good thing you don't have to then," Porthos told him cheerfully, picking up the lantern from the table and handing it to him as they made their way inside. 

"You don't think I'm weak for it?" Athos asked hesitantly. "Or for needing the candle at night?"

Porthos looked at him in surprise. "After what you went through, I'm just impressed you don't demand to sleep inside a whole ring of them," he said. "I reckon I would."

"What was it like?" Athos asked after a second. "Where you found me? It's strange, this new fear in me, I don't even fully understand it."

Porthos shook his head. "It was a pit of hell, and that's all I'm saying. If you don't remember the specifics then good, and I pray you never do. It was dark, yeah, and I don't blame you one bit for not liking that now. You have nothing to be ashamed of Athos, and everything in the world to be proud of. What you've survived - it's amazing. You're amazing."

Athos ducked his head. "I wouldn't be here if not for you," he said quietly. "Literally or figuratively."

Porthos closed the door on the night and smiled at him. "Then we should both be proud. And have no regrets," he added softly.

Athos looked away. "D'Artagnan - "

"Was not your fault," Porthos reminded him gently. "And none of us can change the past." He slipped an arm round Athos' shoulders, suspecting that all the talk of d'Artagnan tonight had left Athos feeling guiltier than he was letting on. 

"I forgave Aramis, didn't I?" Porthos said. "I reckon it's time you forgave yourself."

"Hardly comparable," Athos muttered, but he gave Porthos a tiredly grateful smile. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "It's a heavy weight for me to bear, and one that's not so easily set aside. But I want you to know that it does help," he added quietly. "To know that you at least, do not blame me."

Porthos gave him a one-armed hug, then pushed him towards the stairs. "Bed," he ordered. "For both of us."

For once, Athos did as he was told.

\--

As summer blazed its way to a close, Porthos and Athos mucked in with the rest of the village to help with the harvest. They would receive a share of the grain in return for their labours, and a long week toiling in the hot sun had left them both feeling exhausted but well satisfied.

At the end of the final day's reaping a celebration was held in the village, with feasting and music. Athos though, was still hesitant when faced with large noisy groups of people and he and Porthos retired instead to a secluded field edge, reclining in a patch of shade with a flagon of cider and listening to the skylarks overhead. 

Porthos regarded Athos lying next to him, with straw in his hair and his eyes half-closed. He looked peaceful, Porthos realised, and felt a swell of affection for him.

"Happy?" he murmured.

Athos opened his eyes and looked up at him, considering the question. 

"Yes," he concluded, faintly surprised by his own answer. "You know what, I am."

Porthos smiled at him. "Me too," he said. "Happier than I've ever been, I think." He stretched luxuriously, feeling the ache of honest labour in his shoulders and legs. "I could spend the rest of my life here," he said softly.

Athos studied him for a moment. "Don't you want more from it than this?" he asked. "Eventually?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. A wife?"

"What would I do with a wife?"

Athos gave a low laugh. "If you need me to draw you diagrams, Aramis might be more your man for that."

Porthos chuckled. "Nah. I've already got everything I want," he said, rolling onto his side again to look at Athos. "Everything I need's right here."

Athos looked back at him in silence, searching his face with a half-questioning smile. 

Afterwards, Porthos was never quite sure what made him do it, some combination of the sun and the cider, the softness of Athos' expression and the fact that his lips were just so close.

Acting entirely on instinct, Porthos leaned in and gave Athos the gentlest of kisses. For a second their mouths brushed together in warm, hesitant enquiry, then somehow Athos' lips parted beneath his own and Porthos' tongue slid into his yielding mouth. 

The kiss lasted barely a couple of seconds. Suddenly Athos was pushing him away with a strangled noise of shock, and Porthos fell backwards, horrified at himself.

"Porthos - no - " Athos stared at him in flustered confusion, scrambling backwards on the rough ground. "God, we can't - I'm sorry, I - " He finally managed to get his feet under him and staggered away.

"Athos, no, wait - " Porthos reached out for him, but Athos dodged out of range, then with a stifled cry of shock he turned and ran.

Cursing his own stupidity, Porthos hauled himself up and went after him. Athos had a good head start, and by the time Porthos reached the field gate and could see the path leading downhill towards the cottage, there was no sign of him.

Porthos looked round in confusion. Athos hadn't been that far ahead, and there was nowhere else he could have gone. "Athos?" he called, staring down the empty track, his heart thumping from the sudden exertion and the knowledge of the unforgivably stupid thing he'd just done.

There was no answer, but a rustling nearby made him look round more carefully, and he suddenly saw Athos, sitting hunched up in the dark shade of a hedge, knees drawn up in front of him.

Porthos strode over, and felt it like a physical blow to his heart when Athos flinched.

"No - Porthos, no - " Athos shook his head in distress and Porthos realised with a double shock that Athos must have thought he was chasing him to continue his advances.

"Athos, it's okay - it's okay, I'm sorry." Porthos dropped down next to him and tried to take Athos into his arms but Athos froze, then tried to pull away.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Athos please forgive me," Porthos pleaded. "I did a stupid thing, I don't know what came over me."

Athos fractionally untensed as what Porthos was saying filtered through to him, looking round at Porthos with eyes that were shaken and lost.

"We can't," he said hoarsely. "Porthos we can't - "

"Then we won't," Porthos said quickly. "We won't, we don't have to, I would never ask you to. I should never have done it, I'm sorry."

Athos finally let Porthos pull him into a hug, and leaned against his chest in shaking confusion.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Porthos murmured it over and over almost frantically, holding Athos to him and relieved that at least he wasn't shouting at him in justifiable fury, or trying to run away in fear.

When Porthos finally let him go they sat there side by side for some time, both a little numb with shock and neither knowing what to say. 

To Porthos' surprise, it was Athos who found his voice first. 

"I'm sorry," he said in a low, tired voice. "Forgive me, Porthos." 

Porthos blinked at him. "Whatever have you got to be forgiven for?"

"Because we can't - we can't be that, for each other. You do see that, surely?" Athos said carefully. "I can't give you what you want." 

"You _are_ all I want," Porthos sighed, then realised as Athos gave him wide and startled eyes that it had come out entirely wrong. "I don't mean - like that - I just meant - to be with you. Like we are. Like we have been. That's all I want out of life, and I swear I would never ask anything of you that you didn't want to give."

Athos stared at him with something like horrified curiosity. "And if I did?" he ventured. "What would you ask of me then? What did you intend, if I'd yielded to you back there? Would you have taken me to your bed?" He sounded bewildered rather than angry, disbelieving, as if his world had just been turned upside down. Porthos supposed it had.

He shook his head. "You make it sound like I planned this," Porthos said miserably. "I swear to you I didn't. It was one moment of madness Athos. Forgive me." 

Athos' words though had irresistibly conjured up images of a future now forever lost, where Athos hadn't pushed him away and they'd lain down together in the stalks of barley, a golden-tinted image of them locked forever in each other's arms.

Athos was still staring at him, and Porthos felt a tightness in his chest. "Please say you forgive me?" he pleaded. "Please tell me I haven't ruined everything?"

Athos blinked, seemingly coming out of a deep reverie. Porthos wondered what he'd been thinking. 

"No, no of course not," Athos said, shaking his head. "I forgive you, of course I do. If - if you can forgive me?" he added tentatively. "I would do anything for you Porthos, you know I would, but I cannot be what you need. I'm sorry, I truly am."

Porthos looked at him sadly. "The fault is entirely mine," he said heavily. "I acted on impulse, and what I did was wrong. I wouldn't upset you for all the world."

Athos offered him a tentative smile, as he got to his feet. "Then, let us put it behind us," he said kindly. "And never refer to it again."

Porthos nodded gratefully, but as he watched Athos walk slowly down the hill, it felt strangely like his heart was breaking.

\--

They passed an awkward evening being polite but rather distant to each other, and Porthos dreaded the moment when it would be time to go to bed. Athos too, seemed to be delaying the inevitable, until both were yawning so frequently that it started to seem absurd. 

Athos went up first and Porthos followed a good few minutes later, hoping that Athos would already be asleep. He wasn't, and Porthos looked over at him hesitantly as he began to undress.

"Athos, I - I just want you to know, that - that you don't need to worry. That I would never - " he faltered, searching for words, desperate to reassure Athos that he had no intentions of repeating his earlier mistake.

Athos looked up and to Porthos' surprise half-smiled at him. "Porthos, regardless of anything that might have happened, know that I trust you," he said quietly. "And I will always trust you."

It was like a physical weight had been lifted, and Porthos sagged to the bed in relief. He climbed in beside Athos, albeit careful to leave a space between them, and lay down in exhaustion. 

"Are we okay?" he asked quietly after a second, staring blankly up at the roof trusses.

"Of course we are," Athos murmured back. "And we always will be. I promise."

\--

Normally when Porthos went to bed he checked that the candle in the alcove had enough left to burn until dawn, but tonight, preoccupied and rather miserable, he didn't give it a second thought. 

Nine times out of ten it might not even have mattered, with the amount of hard labour they'd done that week Athos should easily have slept through to morning, but despite his reassuring words to Porthos he'd fallen asleep with a troubled mind. Consequently at some point in the small hours, Athos woke with a start from restless dreams and found himself staring into pitch darkness.

He blinked a few times, expecting the shapes of the room to resolve into focus but the darkness was complete. There had been no moon, and the house was surrounded on three sides by trees, lying in a deep bowl of blackness. Athos couldn't even make out a lighter patch where the window should be, and found his breath was coming fast and shallow.

Athos tried to calm himself, taking deliberately slower breaths, telling himself that there was nothing wrong, that he was in bed, he could feel he was in bed, there was nothing to be afraid of. 

It didn't work, a tight band of fear was settling inexorably around his chest. He could get up, relight the candle, he thought. Except if it had burnt right down he might have to feel his way down the stairs to fetch another, and despite knowing the room like the back of his hand he wasn't even confident which direction they were in any more. Besides, the thought of putting so much as a foot out of the safe haven of the blankets was somehow abhorrent.

He could ask Porthos to fetch one. It would be humiliating, but better than this formless terror. The thought of Porthos was immediately comforting, knowing that at least he wasn't alone in the dark.

Except - was he? Now Athos thought about it, he realised all he could hear was his own breathing, loud in his head. Porthos was normally a snorer, but the room was too quiet. 

Athos swallowed down his fear. Porthos wouldn't have left him alone. Would he? What if after what had happened earlier, Porthos had been too uncomfortable to share the bed with him after all?

He wanted to reach out, check that there was still a warm body just inches away from him, but the building fear was paralysing. He had no conscious recollection of his time in the pit, but a sudden sense memory overwhelmed him until he was convinced that if he reached out he wouldn't feel warm skin or the cotton of Porthos' nightshirt, but cold, wet stone walls.

"Porthos?"

It came out as barely more than a croak and Athos frowned, embarrassed by his own weakness but fighting a rising and very real state of panic.

"Porthos!" 

There was a grunt near his ear, and Athos let out a shuddering breath of relief. It was like a door had been opened, suddenly he was aware of the other man's breathing again, and the way the bed dipped towards him as he moved.

Porthos was still more than half asleep, and concluded in his befuddled state that Athos had had a nightmare. He reached out automatically and wrapped an arm around him, drawing Athos in against his body and hugging him close. It was what he'd done for months when Athos had been in the grip of terrors every night, before he'd regained his memories. It seemed the natural thing to do, and so he did it.

"It's okay," Porthos mumbled, without really opening his eyes. "I'm here. You're safe."

Athos burrowed against him, face in the crook of his neck, one arm around his waist. Porthos held him close, murmuring indistinct sounds of reassurance and gentling him with sleepy hands.

They might simply have fallen back to sleep like that, but on the cusp of drifting off again Porthos abruptly remembered the events of the day like a shock of cold water and his eyes flew open, suddenly wide awake.

The darkness confused him for a moment until he realised what must have happened, and also what was presumably wrong with Athos. Porthos experienced a spike of guilt; it had always been his self-imposed responsibility to check the night lamp, from when Athos couldn't do it for himself.

Hard on the heels of the guilt came a wave of hot embarrassment, that after what he'd done earlier in the day and all his promises to the contrary, he'd just pulled Athos into his arms with all the intimacy of a lover.

Athos didn't seem to mind though, and this more than anything suggested how freaked out he was right now. 

"Athos?" Porthos whispered. "Are you alright? Do you need me to relight the candle?"

He felt Athos give a tiny, tight shake of his head. "I'm okay," he managed. "If you just - " He broke off for a second, before continuing in a much quieter voice, sounding as unsure as Porthos had ever heard him. "Don't let me go?"

"I won't." Porthos tightened his embrace, petting Athos' hair where it curled down his neck. "I won't. I've got you."

Gradually he felt Athos relax in his arms, his breathing becoming steadier and more even. Porthos slowly eased his grip on him until they were holding each other more lightly, but with no lessening of contact.

Athos gave a shaky sigh that Porthos felt flutter against his neck. "I'm sorry," Athos murmured. "You must find me so very pathetic."

Porthos moved his head slightly, rubbing his cheek against the crown of Athos' head in an almost cat-like gesture of affection. "Don't be daft," he said in a low voice. "You know how much regard I have for you." He gave a short laugh. "More than you'd like, as it turns out." 

To his relief Athos gave a breathy huff of laughter to that, and Porthos hugged him tighter for a second, sending up a brief mental prayer of thanks that they could laugh about it. There weren't many men who would so easily forgive him for what he'd done. 

Porthos allowed himself a brief moment of self-indulgence, enjoying the feeling of Athos nestled against him. He wasn't thinking of anything more than relief that they could still be close like this, but when Athos moved in his arms he was immediately willing to pull back and release him.

Athos though merely stretched a little, straightening up so that his face was more on a level with Porthos' on the pillow. Porthos felt warm breath against his cheek and smiled, curling his arm back around Athos' waist and instinctively drawing him back in close.

When he felt the brush of lips against his jaw, Porthos assumed Athos had just misjudged the distance between them in the dark and more than half expected him to jerk away. He certainly didn't expect Athos to stay exactly where he was, so when Porthos turned in to him a little, enquiring smile on his lips that Athos couldn't see, he was taken by surprise to find Athos' face was still right there. 

For a second his mouth brushed Athos', and it was Porthos who ducked back, ready to apologise. Athos made no complaint though, and Porthos couldn't resist inching forward again until their lips were just skimming against each other.

This time it was Athos who moved forward, increasing the pressure of their closed mouths until they were pressed together. It wasn't - quite - a kiss, but Porthos was astonished, and didn't dare move, or do anything to frighten Athos off again. 

When Athos pulled away a second later Porthos wasn't surprised, wondering what was going on in Athos' head, but then Athos closed the gap again and this time the kiss was unmistakeable. 

With cautious and faintly disbelieving hope, Porthos kissed back. Again it was mostly just a chaste meeting of mouths, but this time there was warmth behind it, and lips that moved against each other. 

"Athos?" he whispered, but Athos gave a tight shake of his head, a rustle in the darkness, and kissed him again.

Porthos was floored by the development, but as much as he was enjoying this there was a thread of anxiety running through him, that Athos was only doing this as a way to thank him. He pulled back and tried again.

"Athos? You don't have to - " he broke off as fingers were laid across his lips.

"Shh," Athos breathed. "Don't talk." He prevented further attempts by applying his mouth again, and this time Porthos gave a mental shrug and went with it. Athos had proved he was perfectly capable of spurning unwanted advances, so for whatever reason he must have decided he wanted this.

Porthos couldn't fathom it, but he would enjoy it while it lasted. He had no idea if Athos would ever want to repeat this, and part of him worried what the morning would bring, but for now he would make the most of it. He adjusted his hold on Athos, winding his arms around him more like a lover, and risked deepening the kiss.

This time Athos yielded to him without objection, and they kissed each other with a slow burning heat that made Porthos shiver with need and desire. He'd been telling the truth when he'd said he hadn't planned the kiss in the fields, but with it so many things had fallen into place for him. 

They kissed for some time, sleepy and warm, and as much as Porthos would have liked to take things further, he let Athos set the pace, suspecting it would be counterproductive to rush things now. After all, in the space of a few hours Athos had gone from declaring this was something that could never be, to initiating it himself. Maybe it was only the cloaking dark that let him do it, or maybe he was coming to the same realisation of feelings that Porthos had. 

Porthos let himself hope that it was the latter, that having had time to think it over, Athos had come round to the idea.

After a while Athos pulled away with a quiet sigh and turned over without a word, but he stayed lying where he was and after a second Porthos tentatively put an arm round him. It wasn't rejected, and Porthos settled against his back, sad that the kissing was apparently at an end, but pleased that Athos was still allowing this closeness. 

He wondered whether to say anything, but Athos hadn't seemed to want to discuss it. Porthos eventually fell asleep again, deeply confused but happy.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

Waking in the morning, Porthos found he was alone in the bed. He sighed, stretching out and half wondering if he'd dreamed the events of the night before. But the memory of Athos warm in his arms, the shy intensity of his kisses, his breath shivering across Porthos' lips, was too sweet and too vivid to be a fantasy. 

He dressed quickly, nervously hopeful. That Athos had disappeared was perhaps not a good sign, but it didn't necessarily mean anything. He certainly hadn't gone far, Porthos could hear him moving around downstairs, and made his way down to join him.

"Morning." Porthos gave Athos a smile, but he was staring determinedly out of the window and didn't turn round. 

"Good morning."

There was a palpable tension to both his voice and his posture and Porthos' heart sank a little. On the plus side Athos was at least apparently speaking to him. 

Porthos went over and put his hands lightly on Athos' shoulders, but Athos wriggled away.

"Don't," he said tightly.

"Don't what?" Porthos sighed. "Athos - what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Why should there be anything wrong?" Athos asked evasively, whilst putting half the room between them.

"I just thought - after last night, maybe - "

Athos did look over at him then, but his eyes weren't happy. "Nothing happened last night," he said flatly. 

"Athos!"

"No. I don't know what you're imagining, but you're mistaken." Athos wrapped his arms around himself as if cold and turned away again, unequivocally shutting the conversation down. 

Porthos stared at his back in frustration. He'd been prepared for a number of reactions from Athos, but not this flat denial that anything had happened. The warm affection of the night before had gone, to be replaced by cold steel. It was a side of Athos that Porthos was entirely familiar with, but he hadn't really seen it emerge since his rescue. 

Athos had been an altogether softer, more pliant person since then, and Porthos lamented the return of this closed down version of him as much as the denial itself. He also suspected that the moments when Athos presented himself to the world apparently devoid of all emotion were those when he was suffering the most inner turmoil.

"Athos, can we talk about this?" he asked quietly. 

"There's nothing to talk about," Athos replied shortly. "Please accept that." He picked up an apple from a bowl on the table and made his escape entirely, slipping out the door without a backward glance. 

Porthos hung his head and sighed in defeat. 

\--

Athos didn't reappear until later that evening, when he walked in looking tired and a little guiltily unsure of his welcome. Porthos was just heartily glad to see him. He hadn't wanted to go looking, knowing Athos wanted some space, but a tiny part of him had been afraid Athos wouldn't actually come back. 

He suspected Athos had spent the day out riding, and hoped it had cleared his head a little. 

Athos accepted some supper with a smile that was both gratitude and apology, but he was still unusually quiet, and refused to be drawn into conversation. 

Porthos found himself getting irritated with the continued and stubborn silence in the face of him trying to be patient and understanding, and by the time they were getting ready for bed he was on the brink of losing his temper.

Upstairs, with Athos already in bed, he realised he'd forgotten to bring up another of the fat, slow-burning candles they used overnight to replace the one that had burnt down. He knew he should go back downstairs and fetch one, but he let the streak of resentment that had been building all evening have its head.

As Porthos pulled on his nightshirt and prepared to get into bed, Athos looked up at him a little uncertainly. Porthos stared back at him, just willing Athos to say something he could legitimately snap at him for. 

Athos it turned out, was not worried about Porthos making unwelcome advances, but about the dark. 

"Are you - not going to replace the candle?" he asked tentatively, knowing the thin, rapidly disappearing taper Porthos had brought upstairs with them wouldn't last more than a few minutes. 

"Oh, now you're talking to me?" It came out harsher than he'd meant it to, but Athos' immediate look of guilt was perversely satisfying, and the buried anger flared in Porthos' gut. 

"You know what?" he continued. "Maybe it is time you manned up a bit. Got used to the dark again, eh?" And as Athos looked up at him in hurt confusion, Porthos deliberately blew out the flame.

Porthos lay down, tugging the covers over himself and stubbornly closing his eyes.

Beside him, Athos made no protest but curled into a defensive huddle, his breathing loud and uneven in the quiet of the room.

It took less than a minute for Porthos' fit of temper to drain away, and he found himself swamped by a wave of guilt. After all Athos had been through it was little wonder he was hardly rational or consistent in his emotions, and on top of all the other trauma, Porthos was pressing him to cope with something that changed the very nature of their relationship.

He sighed, rolling over towards Athos in the dark. "I'm sorry," he said tiredly. "That was mean of me. I'll relight it."

There was a rustle of bedding as Athos uncurled a fraction. "No, you're right," he said in a low voice that couldn't quite disguise the tremor in it. "It's ridiculous for a grown man to be afraid of the dark like this."

Porthos groaned inwardly, hating himself for having caused Athos such self-recrimination.

"No it isn't," he murmured, reaching out to stroke Athos' arm under the covers. "And I give you my honest word I think no less of you for it. You are still twice the man I am."

He half-expected Athos to pull away from his touch, but instead Athos surged towards him until suddenly he was lying in Porthos' arms. Porthos hugged him close, remembering Athos' words from the night before, that he'd been able to cope with the darkness as long as Porthos was holding him.

"I'm sorry," Porthos whispered. "I was unkind. Forgive me."

In answer Athos leaned up and sought out Porthos' mouth with his own.

Porthos made a surprised noise, his hand coming up automatically to cradle the back of Athos' head, deepening the kiss out of instinct more than conscious thought. 

"Athos?" he breathed, as soon as Athos had relinquished his mouth again.

"Shhh." 

Porthos shook his head in bemusement as Athos kissed him again. "You're confusing as hell, you know that?" he grumbled. Fingers came to rest lightly on his lips, and he kissed them, smiling reluctantly. "I know, I know, don't talk."

He gave in and went with it, the temptation of being able to kiss Athos again too great. For some time they kissed each other, slowly and carefully, and Porthos wondered if this was more by way of a comfort for Athos than a turn on. 

It was certainly a turn on for him, and he was starting to get hard when Athos pulled sharply away.

"Athos - no, stay," he coaxed, reaching out for him and finding Athos had turned his back. "Stay, it's alright." Porthos wrapped an arm round him, wondering guiltily if Athos had felt his growing arousal. To his relief, Athos allowed him to settle at his back again, and Porthos finally fell asleep in even greater confusion than he had the night before.

\--

The next morning Athos was gone again from the bed, and Porthos sighed as he dressed. He was resigned but unsurprised when Athos greeted him as warily and coldly as he had the previous day, but this time was determined to pry at least some kind of response out of him.

"Athos - about last night," he started, when Athos was safely seated at the table with a sticky piece of bread and honey and could be reasonably expected not to flee the house, if only because he'd need to stop and wash first.

Athos gave him a quelling look. "Nothing happened last night," he said firmly.

"It did, and you know bloody well it did." Porthos leaned his elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. "And I think we need to talk about it."

"There's nothing to say." Athos got to his feet, abandoning his breakfast, and Porthos groaned.

"Athos, wait, please," he begged, and Athos hesitated, looking back at him cautiously.

"I just - I just need to know that you're into it, that you're not just doing it for me," Porthos pleaded. "I wouldn't want that."

Athos stared at him blankly for a long moment, then turned away. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Porthos slumped back in his seat and watched Athos walk outside, hearing the distant creak of the well handle as he sluiced himself clean at a safe distance from prying questions.

\-- 

This time Athos did at least stay around the house and garden, although his responses to Porthos' attempts at conversation were mostly distant and formal. 

Porthos watched Athos from a distance, a little sadly. Was he really prepared to give up the easy and comfortable friendship they had for a few fumbles in the dark, he wondered? But all of it was so mixed up in his head, and his feelings for Athos could no longer be unpicked into such simple categories. 

He found himself half anticipating and half dreading the point when it would be time to retire for the night. In the event, Athos went up a good half an hour before him, and Porthos wondered if it was on purpose to avoid him, and if Athos would be asleep - or pretending to be - when he came up.

Neither proved to be the case, he found Athos sitting propped up in bed when he finally made his way up to their chamber. He seemed to be listening to the patter of the rain falling outside, the window pushed wide to let in the scent of the garden.

Porthos nodded to him, and set about changing into his nightshirt. Athos said nothing, until Porthos was ready for bed and wondering whether he should set out a second candle, to burn overnight.

"I'm not." Athos said quietly.

Porthos turned round with a frown of enquiry. "Not what?"

Athos hesitated, staring at the bedclothes rather than Porthos. "Not just doing it for you."

He risked a glance up, to check that Porthos understood what he was talking about. Porthos took a deep breath, feeling relieved. "Thank you," he said sincerely, and Athos nodded quickly, turning away again.

"Athos." Porthos waited until Athos looked up at him, then deliberately blew out the candle.

He heard Athos' sharp intake of breath and moved onto the bed, feeling vaguely guilty. Was he deliberately trying to drive Athos into his arms by inflicting the darkness on him? But Athos' involuntary gasp had sounded as much anticipation as fear, and as Porthos climbed under the covers he found Athos' open arms were waiting for him.

This time Porthos didn't hesitate and it was him who kissed Athos, no tentative brush of lips this time but a heated kiss that was full of passion. Athos made a strangled noise in his throat that was more than half shock, but suddenly he was clutching at Porthos with something close to desperation. 

Porthos bore them both down to the bed, kissing Athos hard and deep, feeling him respond in kind. Tonight Porthos didn't waste words, if Athos wanted to pretend they weren't doing this, fine. As long as Athos was into it, Porthos could put up with his conditions if it meant he got to do this every night.

And this, now, was what he'd been longing for, no mannered and polite kissing but a clash of tongues and teeth, frantic and hungry for each other, wrapped tightly in each other's arms.

Porthos was lying half on top of Athos as they kissed, enjoying the position to the full. He could feel Athos getting hard against his hip, had been fully erect himself for several minutes, and the temptation to do something about it was too great. He rolled onto his back and pulled Athos on top of him, reasoning this would be less likely to freak him out than pinning him to the bed.

For a glorious few moments Athos went with it, Porthos' hands around his waist, pushing against him, groin to groin - but then he seemed to realise what he was doing and slithered off to the side with a hiccupping breath of guilty horror.

Porthos lay there for a few seconds, taking deep breaths to get a hold of himself and trying not to be cross that he'd fucked things up by rushing it.

"Athos?" he called quietly. "You okay?"

"Yeah." The shaky whisper came back immediately, and Porthos was grateful for the straight answer for once. 

"Can I hold you?" he ventured. There was no answer, but Porthos figured Athos was more likely to have spelt it out if it was a no. He inched forwards to Athos' side of the bed and put a gentle arm round him, careful to keep his hand up near Athos' chest and away from his groin.

"Sorry," Athos whispered after a moment, taking Porthos rather by surprise.

He found Athos' hand in the dark and patted it, nuzzling a kiss below his ear. "No talking, remember?" Porthos murmured, and was gratified to feel Athos give a soft breath of laughter. 

They fell asleep curled together, and as he drifted off Porthos had the warming realisation that this at least had nothing to do with sex, and their friendship was still as close as it had ever been.

\--

It came as no surprise to Porthos to wake alone again, and this time he was determined not to pester Athos with questions. He had no desire to make Athos feel uncomfortable, and reasoned that letting him come round to things in his own time was the sensible course of action. He could be patient.

Athos visibly went from wary to relieved when Porthos joined him downstairs without making reference to the night before and instead started talking about the garden, and what needed to be done before winter. 

Athos was still fidgety though, and after a while he got to his feet, looking down at Porthos with a determined but nervous expression. "I thought I'd go to church this morning," he said, trying to sound offhand about it but fiddling with his belt anxiously.

Porthos looked at him. "You mean confession," he said, and Athos gave a jerky nod. Porthos got to his feet and came over to him, studying Athos' face. 

"I can't tell you not to," he said. "Just - be careful what you say, Athos. This is a small place, and he'll know who you are."

Athos flushed. "The sanctity of the confessional - "

"Yeah, yeah I know. He can't repeat anything. Which'd be fine, except on the list of people I trust, priests feature somewhere below foxes."

Athos flicked him a look. "I need to do this." 

They studied each other. In Paris there wouldn't have been a problem, with so many people and so many churches, they would have been reasonably anonymous. But here, here it was different, and Porthos was nervous. He swallowed down his objections though. If Athos felt he had to, who was Porthos to tell him otherwise.

He nodded slowly, and Athos relaxed a little. Porthos realised with a jolt he'd been expecting him to forbid him from going. 

"I'm not ashamed of what we're doing," Porthos said quietly. 

Athos flinched. "You should be," he said tightly, and walked out.

\--

It was several hours before Athos returned, and Porthos made himself give a calm and friendly welcome.

"Feel better?" he asked, handing Athos a beaker of watered wine and giving him a sympathetic smile. He'd come to terms with his own feelings on the matter surprisingly easily, but could only imagine how conflicted Athos felt.

"A little," Athos agreed, and to Porthos' relief sat down next to him on the settle. For the last few days Athos had maintained a noticeable distance from him during the day, even spending the evenings in a separate chair rather than next to Porthos as had been his custom.

Athos fiddled with the beaker. "I said nothing to incriminate either of us," he admitted in a low voice. "I merely confessed to - having impure thoughts."

Porthos swallowed down the inappropriate urge to laugh. Instead he leaned over and rested his chin on Athos' shoulder with a smirk.

"Impure thoughts eh? I like the sound of those. Care to share any?"

Athos looked round at him with wide eyes and a look of horror, but there was also more than a touch of amusement in it.

"What?" Porthos grinned at him, and Athos shook his head.

"You're incorrigible," he muttered into the wine.

"And you're ashamed of me." Porthos said it lightly, but there was a heaviness inside him that he couldn't quite disguise. Athos though, looked up in startled distress.

"No! Porthos, no, I never said that."

"You're ashamed of what we're doing. It's the same thing."

"No, it isn't," Athos insisted. "I'm ashamed of myself, that's all," he added under his breath. "I'm ashamed of the way I feel, of the things I want. The things you make me want."

"Don't be," Porthos said, his heart leaping despite the sadness in Athos' face, at this unexpected indication that Athos might actually feel the same way towards him.

"How can you say that?" Athos pulled away from him uncomfortably, getting to his feet and pacing tightly in front of the hearth. "What we're doing is wrong, why can't you admit that?"

"Because it doesn't feel wrong," Porthos said stubbornly, sitting back and looking up at him. "And I'm not ashamed of the way I feel about you. This isn't just some cheap thrill. I love you Athos."

For a second Athos froze, shooting him a startled glance that Porthos couldn't read. Porthos half expected him to bolt out of the door again, but Athos merely resumed his pacing, looking even more troubled than before.

"You say you're not ashamed, but it was you who counselled me not to say anything, even in the confessional," Athos pointed out bitterly.

"I don't expect anyone else to understand," Porthos sighed. "God can judge me if he wants. I reckon I've probably done enough killing over the years that falling in love with someone I shouldn't'll be at the bottom of his list anyway."

"How can you joke about this?" Athos asked tightly. "What do you want from me Porthos? Some brazen utopia where we live together as man and wife, is that it? I can't live like that." 

"I think I could," Porthos said quietly.

Athos stopped pacing again and stared at him, wrapping his arms protectively around himself. "I'm sorry. I did warn you."

"Warn me?" Porthos looked up at him in confusion. 

"That I can't be what you want," Athos said heavily. "That I can't give you what you're looking for. I can - give you a little. But it will never be everything. Perhaps you should find someone who can."

"No." Porthos stood up then, and found he was blinking back the threat of sudden tears. "Whatever happens Athos, whatever we can or can't be to each other, you are all I want, and I will never leave you."

They stared at each other, Porthos aching to take Athos into his arms but reading the way he was poised to take flight at the slightest wrong move.

It was Athos who turned away first, defeated and torn. "Then we are both damned," he sighed.

\--


	7. Chapter 7

When they went upstairs that night, Porthos climbed into bed leaving the candle lantern burning in the alcove, unsure how Athos was feeling on the question of darkness right now. It seemed to be a double edged sword, in that the one thing that helped Athos cope with it also left him plagued by guilt and shame.

"Aren't you going to put out the light?" Athos asked hesitantly, answering the unasked question.

Porthos gave him a smile. "Do you want me to?" 

Athos dropped his gaze, heat blooming in his cheeks. "I - I don't think I can - I mean, if you want to - to - " he faltered, and Porthos took pity on him.

"You can only do it in the dark?" he ventured, and Athos nodded with embarrassed gratitude. 

Porthos complied without argument. The fact that Athos would at least now acknowledge the fact they were doing anything in the first place felt like progress, not to mention that Athos actually asking him to snuff out the candle must mean he wanted this to happen. 

After his openly expressed doubts earlier in the day, Porthos hadn't been at all sure Athos would want to continue, but he folded himself willingly enough into Porthos' arms and raised his face to be kissed.

Porthos obliged, with a gentle enthusiasm. If this was Athos' way of dealing with it all, then so be it. The fact that Athos had so many doubts and worries about what they were doing and yet still wanted to do it was in itself a minor miracle. After Athos had walked away from him that day in the fields, Porthos had never thought he would have the opportunity to hold him in his arms like this, and was determined never to take it for granted.

He buried his face in Athos' neck and breathed him in, nuzzling kisses inside the collar of his nightshirt. "I love you," he murmured, wanting Athos to know he'd meant it.

"Shhh," Athos admonished, but Porthos grinned in the dark. Athos' arms were round him and the taste of him was on his tongue, and he felt invincible.

"Maybe I don't want to shush," Porthos said. "Maybe I want to be loud." He wriggled closer until he was draped half on top of Athos, and kissed him firmly on the lips. "Maybe I want you to be loud. Tell me more about those impure thoughts of yours."

It was a gamble, but to his relief Athos gave a snort of reluctant laughter. 

"Do you ever really regret telling somebody something?" Athos muttered.

"Frequently." Porthos smiled against his lips and kissed him again, licking slowly into his mouth and feeling the shiver that ran through Athos' body. 

They kissed in near-silence for a while, their breathing and the little wet noises of their kissing the only sound. 

After a while Porthos, emboldened by the fact that Athos hadn't yet pulled away, sat up and peeled off his nightshirt. It was enough for Athos to break his own self-imposed rule with a startled intake of breath.

"Porthos? What are you doing?" he whispered in shock.

"Nothing?" Porthos replied innocently, lying back down and covering Athos with his now naked body.

"Christ."

Porthos gave a low laugh. "Now now. No blaspheming. Bad for your immortal soul."

"You - are - " Athos broke off, mostly because Porthos was kissing him again. 

"You can touch me you know," Porthos murmured after a second, aware that Athos didn't seem to know where to rest his hands. "It's okay."

Athos swallowed, and tentatively let his hands come to rest on Porthos' back. 

"I'm not made of glass," Porthos smiled, resisting with difficulty the temptation to rut up against him. Porthos was hard, massively so, and Athos could hardly have failed to notice, but so far he hadn't objected.

Athos experimentally moved his hands, stroking down the planes of Porthos' back, exploring his body, tentatively at first but with a growing confidence.

"Oh God yes," Porthos breathed as Athos' fingers skated over his skin, mapping the ridge of his spine, the curve of his hip, one hand splayed now over the angle of his shoulder, the other - Porthos gave a splutter of surprised laughter as Athos' other hand cupped one cheek of his arse and gave it an experimental squeeze.

The thought suddenly occurred to him that once Athos was committed to a course of action, he was not a man to be accused of executing it half-heartedly. The second thought, hard on the heels of the first, was that while Athos might not have pursued women with the same tenacity as Aramis, or even of Porthos himself, neither was he exactly a blushing virgin. 

The mental image of Athos, not as a conflicted and partly coerced participant but as an eager and ardent lover was an appealing one, and given credence by the fact that Athos was now blatantly just as hard as Porthos was.

Porthos slid a little to the side, gratified that Athos even made a protesting noise as he moved off him. He let his hand travel down Athos' thigh until he reached the hem of his nightshirt, then slowly pushed it back up the line of his body.

"Porthos?" Athos sounded uncertain but not yet objecting. 

"Shhh. It's okay." Porthos let his hand dip between Athos' legs, stroking up the inside of his thigh. Athos caught his breath, but didn't protest until it was obvious Porthos' hand was headed higher.

"Porthos, what - no - Porthos, no - _oh_." Athos broke off as Porthos wrapped a large hand around Athos' straining cock and squeezed him gently. 

When no further requests were made for him to stop, Porthos started slowly stroking him, carefully pushing the folds of Athos' nightshirt up out of the way with his other hand.

Athos' breathing was laboured and Porthos had the impression that his fingers were bunched in the sheet below him, but he made no move to try and pull away. Porthos worked him with a slow, firm hand, alert for any indication of distress or other sign that Athos wanted him to stop. 

This was new ground for Porthos as much as Athos, he'd never had another man's cock in his hand before and it was a revelatory experience. The soft slip of the skin under his fingers, the thick warmth of the shaft, the way he could feel Athos' stomach muscles clenching as he neared his climax.

"Porthos?" It was a breathy plea, not exactly of protest but with a certain degree of anxiety. Porthos guessed what was troubling him. 

"It's okay to come for me Athos," he murmured, seeking out Athos' hand. "It's okay." 

Porthos wished he could see him, but guessed that Athos would never have been able to let himself go this far with a light burning. There was the faintest sliver of moon tonight, and he could distinguish the blocks of darker shadow that were the bed, the clothes chest, the nightstand, and the paler square that was the little window in the gable end, but nothing else.

On the other hand, doing everything by touch alone made for an interestingly intimate experience, one that Porthos found he was enjoying very much. 

Athos' breathing was getting more and more irregular, and Porthos could tell he was trying to stop himself pushing into Porthos' hand. He obliged him by delivering a rather faster, firmer stroke and then suddenly and without warning Athos was coming, spilling hot over his hand. Porthos worked him to the end until Athos had nothing left to come and was sprawled bonelessly across the bed, heaving for breath. 

Porthos flopped onto his back beside him, and there was just one more thing he had to do or he felt he'd explode.

"Forgive me this, I've really got to - er - " Porthos broke off, wrapping his hand around his own rigid cock with a sigh of relief. His fingers were still wet with Athos' come and it added an unexpectedly erotic charge to things as he pulled himself off, hard and fast. 

It took no time at all before Porthos was coming in thick stripes up his own stomach, groaning in hearty relief. Athos had remained quiet the whole time, and Porthos had a moment of worry that he was already regretting what they'd done.

"Can I light the lamp, just to clean us up?" Porthos asked, sitting up and swiping ruefully at the mess on his belly.

"I'd rather you didn't?" Athos said quietly after a brief hesitation, and Porthos sighed. He grabbed his discarded nightshirt and wiped himself down with it, before reaching out to find Athos, and doing the same for him. He wished he'd thought to have a handkerchief or something ready, but then, he'd never imagined things would go this far when he'd got into bed in the first place.

He pulled the covers back up; they were both too hot for it, but it felt comforting, and he suspected right now Athos would want to hide, lamp or no lamp.

"Are you okay?" Porthos whispered, snuggling up behind Athos, who'd curled away from him on his side.

"I don't really know," Athos whispered back, and Porthos hugged him, feeling suddenly guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Would you rather I hadn't done that? Tell me, Athos, I only want the truth. Tell me, and I'll never do it again."

Athos shook his head, his hair tickling Porthos' nose. "I don't know," he said again. "I don't know what I want. It's all so - how is it so easy, for you?"

"Maybe I'm just a terrible degenerate," Porthos offered, and was cheered to feel Athos' shoulders twitch with a silent laugh. 

"I wish I was, then," Athos sighed. He turned round and to Porthos' surprise kissed him on the mouth before settling back down again. "Thank you," Athos said quietly. 

"What for?" asked Porthos, faintly lost.

"For what you just did for me." 

"Does that mean you liked it then?" Porthos put an arm back round him, and kissed him hopefully under the ear. 

"Of course I liked it," Athos admitted. "I'm not dead from the waist down."

Porthos gave a low delighted laugh. "Does that mean I can do it again?"

Athos found his hand in the dark, and squeezed it. 

"As long as I don't have to wash your nightshirts."

\--

When he woke the next morning, Porthos was pleasantly surprised to find Athos was still asleep in his arms. He lay there for a while enjoying the fact and trying not to move, but eventually had to shift slightly to relieve his aching shoulder.

Athos woke immediately and tensed, clearly considering wriggling clear. Porthos wrapped his arm around Athos more snugly. 

"Stay," he murmured. "Listen to it out there, it's horrible. We don't have to get up yet."

For a moment Athos seemed to debate pulling away anyway, but finally settled cautiously back against Porthos' chest.

It was one more victory, and Porthos managed to restrain the instinctive urge to press for more. He lay there quietly, holding Athos against him in a loose embrace he could easily break free from if he needed to.

It got him an extra twenty minutes of snuggling, and he tried not to be disappointed when Athos finally crawled out from under his arm.

"No, come back," Porthos coaxed with a laugh, pawing after his disappearing warmth.

"I need a piss." Athos smiled at him, but threw on some clothes and padded barefoot down the stairs. Porthos rolled back into the blankets and sighed. Athos could easily have used the chamber pot but the fact he was willing to brave the cold rain outside suggested it had been more of an escape gambit than anything. 

Porthos cleaned himself up using the pitcher of water on the nightstand, and shivered. The weather was turning from the last heat of summer to the sudden chills of autumn, and the nights were already noticeably longer than a few weeks ago.

Downstairs he found Athos poking the fire into life, and curled an arm round him, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. Athos pulled away before he could make contact.

"Don't."

"Athos - "

"No." Athos hung his head tiredly. "Stop - pushing like this all the time. I'm trying my best."

Porthos took a step back, thrown. He'd thought he was being the embodiment of patience, certainly as far as his own urges went, but he suddenly saw it from Athos' point of view. He'd stated, clearly and repeatedly, that he wasn't comfortable with acknowledging what they were doing during the day, and yet Porthos had persisted in pushing the boundaries.

He dropped into a chair and sighed. "I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'll stop."

Athos looked over at him warily and gave him a cautious nod of thanks. "I'm sorry too," he said in a low voice. "I know you must feel I'm not being fair."

Porthos shook his head, wanting to go and hug him and cursing the fact that his own impatience now meant that he couldn't without it being misinterpreted.

"No, I'm an idiot," Porthos said gloomily. "I just need poking with a stick sometimes, till the message goes in."

Athos half-smiled, and Porthos relaxed a little, smiling back apologetically. That they could get through these moments, that they could forgive each other the things they found hard to deal with - it made him warm inside and it gave him hope for the future.

\--

They settled into a pattern. By day they went about their lives as if no more than close friends, although as Athos gradually came to accept that Porthos would this time keep his word and never push for more than he was comfortable giving he was able to relax a little, once more accepting gestures of innocent affection without protest.

Porthos had always been a physically demonstrative man, and curbing his natural inclination to give wild hugs when happy had been difficult. That Athos would endure them with a smile again meant a lot to him. In the evenings now they would frequently fall asleep leaning against each other in front of the fire, particularly if a good bottle of wine had been involved.

By night, they became steadily more intimate. The darkness seemed to lift the sense of constricting guilt from Athos, and he responded to Porthos' initially tentative proposals with a quiet eagerness that surprised both of them. They would tangle together, sometimes kissing for hours, sometimes bringing each other off in the space of minutes, using their hands or just thrusting against each other until they both came, panting and laughing. 

At first Porthos had assumed that Athos' determination to remain in stubborn denial about what they were doing would make things awkward or stilted, but it seemed the reverse was true. Able to blithely pretend he was doing nothing of the sort now that Porthos had stopped trying to get him to acknowledge it, once he'd got over his shyness of touching Porthos' naked body Athos proved a willing and generous lover. 

It wasn't all smooth sailing. After a few weeks of this, and for no reason at all that either of them could fathom, Athos suddenly hit a patch of suffering horrendous nightmares again. He would wake in paralysed fear, unable even to call out, and so Porthos started leaving a candle burning overnight once more 

This unfortunately meant that Athos automatically refused to engage in anything remotely sexual, declining Porthos' suggestion that they could just light it again afterwards. Porthos gave in without much of a fight. Having felt Athos shaking against him in sheer nameless terror, he wasn't about to make his life harder. 

Gradually the dreams eased off again, becoming more sporadic and finally stopping altogether, although it was a good couple of weeks more before Athos would consent to doing without the candle at night. 

Porthos watched Athos getting ready for bed with dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep and a resigned heaviness in his expression at the thought he might be about to face another night of mental torture, and his heart went out to him. He wondered if Athos would ever truly be free of his ordeal, or if he would carry it inside him forever.

\--

It was a cold day in November when the letter arrived. It came enclosed with a note from Treville, saying it had been delivered to the garrison and passed to him in the hope of being forwarded.

Porthos stared uneasily at the official looking seal, whilst Athos looked on curiously.

"It's not going to open itself," Athos said finally, and Porthos scowled at him, breaking it open with his finger. He read the message with an increasingly furrowed brow.

"What is it?" Athos asked, concerned by his worried expression. 

"I'm not sure," said Porthos slowly. "It's from a firm of solicitors in Paris. They've summoned me to attend their offices."

"Why?" Athos held out his hand and Porthos handed him the letter with a shrug. 

"They don't say." He shifted uneasily. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"Of course you haven't." Athos looked up from scanning the unhelpfully terse note in surprise. "Porthos, I'm sure it's nothing bad."

"Solicitors rarely want to see you for anything good." Porthos shivered, feeling unsettled and unaccountably nervous. "What do I do?"

Athos threw the letter onto the table and closed the gap between them, taking hold of Porthos' hands. "You write back and agree to attend, and you ask them for further information," he said calmly. "And you write back to Treville too, and tell him we're coming to Paris. He'll be annoyed if we go and don't see him."

Porthos nodded, then looked surprised. "We?" he echoed.

"You don't think I'd let you go alone do you?" Athos smiled.

Porthos squeezed his hands gratefully, a wave of relief running through him. But - "Are you sure? You'll be okay? In Paris, I mean?"

Athos shrugged lightly. "I guess we'll find out. I'll try not to panic on you." He took in Porthos' anxious expression and sighed. "It'll be fine, okay? Come here." He reached up and pulled Porthos into an unexpected hug.

Calmed by Athos' practical advice, Porthos duly sent off the two letters and in a matter of days had received the subsequent replies. Treville wrote back immediately, inviting them both to dine with him in his rooms at the palace and offering any assistance they might require during their stay.

Messers Fabron and Lécuyer also replied, with the admirable brevity of a law firm producing a letter it was not being paid for, to inform Porthos they were instructed to act on behalf of the Marquis de Belgard.

This unexpected reminder of his estranged father sent Porthos into a spin of increasing anxiety, with Athos unable to do more than counsel him not to speculate ahead of the known facts. 

"What's that bastard up to now?" Porthos growled, absent-mindedly crumpling the letter in bewildered anger. "Why can't he have the decency to leave me alone?" 

Athos shook his head. "Given how sparing they're being with information we won't know until we get there. He may be in trouble."

Porthos looked even more thunderous. "You really think he'd have the gall to ask me for help after everything he did?"

"More to the point, would you give it?" Athos asked. Porthos flattened the letter out again, reading it over in an unsuccessful hunt for further clues.

"What do you think I should do?" he sighed.

"I think you should wait and see what they actually want," Athos advised. "And then act according to your conscience. Whatever you decide, know that I will support you in it."

Porthos gave him a grateful smile. He couldn't imagine what Belgard wanted of him, and dreaded being drawn into some new scheming of his. He knew that Belgard had avoided prison, his part in the Levesques' kidnapping plot remaining unproven, but had had no further contact with him since.

They left for Paris the following day, wrapped up against the increasingly sharp winter wind. As they reached the city in the late afternoon, Porthos kept a sharp eye on Athos for any signs of discomfort or unease, but he seemed to be looking about him with bright and interested attention.

Treville had offered to make a suite available for them in the palace, but they had decided to retain a degree of autonomy and taken a room at an inn. As they changed their travel-stained clothing for attire more suitable to dine with the Minister, Porthos was glad to see Athos was displaying a degree of animation he hadn't observed for some time.

"You know, maybe I was wrong to keep you so sheltered," he mused with a smile. "Maybe a bit more stimulation would have been good for you."

Athos smiled back. "I think you absolutely did the best thing for me," he said. "I don't think I could have faced this before, although I would have tried, if you'd wanted to."

"You just let me know if it gets too much, okay?" Porthos pressed. "If you need to cut things short, or get tired, or whatever."

"I'll be fine," Athos promised. "I'm with you. What could go wrong?"

\--


	8. Chapter 8

Treville received them with open pleasure, and lead them into his rooms in a secluded corner of the palace. 

"His Majesty likes me to be on hand at all hours," was his neutral reply to Porthos' teasing at the opulence of their surroundings, in stark contrast to Treville's simple quarters at the garrison.

"Must be hell," Porthos grinned, accepting some wine in a glass that was probably worth half what their cottage was.

"Ignore him," Athos murmured with a smile. "And possibly frisk him as he leaves."

Treville gave a roar of laughter, glad to see so much improvement in Athos, even since his first visit to them at Pinon.

They dined well, and were still seated at the table lingering over a fine cognac when the sound of the outer door opening was followed by the unexpected noise of a small but boisterous stampede.

To the considerable astonishment of both Athos and Porthos, a leaf of the inner door swung open and two small boys ran into the room and proceeded to chase each other around the table.

"There something you've been meaning to tell us?" Porthos smirked.

Treville laughed. "They are not mine, thankfully. I happened to mention your visit to her Majesty earlier, and she said she would try and stop by. I had assumed she said it only out of politeness, I didn't imagine she would actually find the time to do so."

Porthos, watching the continuing game of tag with some amusement, gave a snort of laughter. "Last time I saw the Queen she wasn't a six year old boy."

"The taller one is his Highness the Dauphin," explained Treville. "And of course the other - "

His words were lost as from the outer room a woman called across him in a tone of mortified horror.

"Alexandre! Louis! Stop that at once!" 

A page had belatedly swung both the doors wide open, to reveal her Majesty Queen Anne smiling serenely in at them, safe in the knowledge that her son could cause as much disruption as he liked and be forgiven for it by all, and at her side a woman looking considerably more embarrassed by the boys' behaviour. 

_"Constance."_ Athos rose to his feet in slow shock, the blood draining from his face at this unexpected encounter. 

"Hello Athos," Constance replied quietly, a rather more sombre look replacing the fading flush of maternal exasperation. She nodded to Porthos, who was looking between her and Athos with growing concern.

"I - I - " Athos' hand was splayed around the base of his throat as if his breath had caught there. "I'm sorry," he managed. 

"What for?" Constance frowned in perplexity.

"I - should have come to see you before," Athos said tightly, dropping his gaze as Porthos moved in protectively close, guessing that Athos' choked apology had been for something else entirely, and offering his silent support.

"You've been ill. I understand that," Constance said. She looked uncomfortable at Athos' obvious distress but there was an underlying determination there too and Porthos silently begged her not to say anything that would upset Athos further. His prayers went unanswered.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," Constance said quietly. "But when I heard you were both here, I had to come. I have to know, Athos. D'Artagnan - I'd come to cope with the knowledge that I'd lost him, but - when I heard you'd been found - Athos is there any chance, any chance at all that he might still be alive somewhere?"

Athos shook his head, for a second unable to speak and when Porthos looked round he found to his horror that silent tears were running down Athos' cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Athos managed hoarsely. "I'm so sorry. I was there when - when he died. I'm sorry Constance, I'm so - I should have thought, I should have - I'm sorry." 

As the last thread of hope for Constance snapped she covered her face with her hands, and stifled a sob. The Queen shared an awkward look with Treville and reached out for her.

"Come, Constance, we have taken up enough of their time. Louis, Alexandre, come along now. Say goodbye." 

The two little boys chorused a subdued farewell, confused by the sudden outpouring of grief around them, and allowed Anne to shepherd them hurriedly out of the room. She took Constance's arm and lead her out too, embarrassed at having unwittingly been the cause of such a social faux pas and sensing that Athos would not want the women to see him crying.

As soon as the door closed on them Porthos pulled Athos into his arms. 

"It's alright," he soothed, mentally cursing the fact that it had not once crossed either of their minds that Constance might be there, and been prepared for it.

Athos was visibly struggling for breath, and Porthos guided him to a chair, rubbing his back.

"Easy," he murmured. "It's alright. I've got you."

"I can't breathe," Athos managed, fingers clenching in Porthos' shirt collar, on the verge of panic. 

Porthos put his arms round him again and hugged him close, pressing a kiss to his temple despite the presence of Treville. "It's okay, it's alright. Just try and breathe slow. That's it. That's it."

Gradually, Athos calmed enough to catch his breath again, but remained with his face buried in Porthos' shoulder, trying to hide the still falling tears.

"What'd you want to spring Constance on him like that for?" Porthos demanded angrily of Treville.

Treville looked nonplussed. "I thought they were friends?"

"Yeah, but - after what happened to d'Artagnan? What were you thinking?"

Treville shook his head, trying to keep his temper in the face of being accused of something completely unfair. "I don't _know_ what happened to d'Artagnan," he retorted.

Porthos subsided, suddenly realising this was true. "Oh. Yeah. Right." He checked on Athos, who was snuffling into his neck.

"Tell him," Athos mumbled.

"Eh?" 

Athos blinked up at him, his lashes wet and cheeks streaked with tearstains, but beginning to master himself. "Tell him."

"You sure?"

Athos nodded, and Porthos sighed. "Alright." He looked up at Treville, who'd resumed his seat, and was looking curious.

"They were - captured together," Porthos told him. "Tortured. The Spanish wanted to know the passwords that would get them behind French lines. When torture didn't work, they threatened to kill d'Artagnan if Athos didn't cooperate." He hesitated, only going on when he felt Athos give an encouraging nod against his shoulder. 

"Athos - still wouldn't give them the information."

"I would have expected nothing less," Treville said quietly.

"And they killed d'Artagnan for it," Porthos said heavily. "In front of him. But it weren't his _fault_."

"I didn't say - " Treville broke off, realising that Porthos' final fierce averral had been aimed not at him, but at the man in his arms. "Oh dear God," Treville sighed. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry Athos."

Athos looked up, shaking but just holding it together. "He begged me not to give in," Athos whispered. "D'Artagnan. I would have told them everything, done anything, to save him. But he wouldn't let me. Whatever they did to him, he just kept begging me to stay strong, not to give in to them. He didn't want to be responsible for what would happen if the Spanish infiltrated our lines." 

The tears were falling again now, silent and unregarded. Porthos wondered if Athos even knew he was crying.

"You never told me that part before," Porthos said quietly.

Athos shook his head miserably. "It's not a memory I'm particularly fond of reliving."

Porthos hugged him. "Come on. Let's get you to bed." He helped Athos to his feet, and Treville fetched their cloaks.

"I'm sorry," Athos told him, looking shamefaced. "You must think - "

"I think you did your duty, where a lot of men would have failed," Treville said firmly. "And I for one am proud of you. And I would lay my life on the fact that d'Artagnan was too. What you went through - what I can only imagine you are still going through - you have nothing to be ashamed of Athos. Stay strong." Treville held out his hand and Athos took it in a daze, as Treville shook it firmly.

"Look after him," he instructed Porthos, who nodded. 

"Always," he promised, and patted Athos on the back. "Come on you."

They made their way back to the inn, glad of the bracing night air. Athos was quiet the whole way back, barely speaking until he was in bed, waiting for Porthos to join him.

"I'm sorry."

Porthos looked over. "For what?" he growled. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Stop it."

"For humiliating you."

Porthos snorted. "I've had plenty of practice at humiliating meself over the years. Trust me, you got nothing."

Athos managed a watery smile. "For showing myself up then. In front of Treville. And the Queen."

"And Constance? Or don't she count?" Porthos needled, trying to make him smile again. Athos just sighed. 

"To my shame, Constance has seen me in a pitiable state more than once. She at least I can be sure will not hold it against me."

"Oh, like the others will? Come on Athos. Self-pity ain't pretty." 

Athos blinked up at him in surprise, then gave him a rueful smile. "Sorry. Rough night."

Porthos smiled back warmly. About to get into bed he turned his attention to the stub of candle they'd been left, and groaned.

"Well that piece of cheap shit ain't going to last the night, is it? Why the hell didn't I think to bring a decent one? Better go and see if I can prise a whole one out of them."

Athos reached out to him. "No, it's fine. I'm fine. Just - stay with me."

Porthos climbed under the covers and wrapped Athos in a hug, feeling faintly worried when he didn’t protest.

"You really okay?" he murmured.

"No, not really." Athos settled into Porthos' arms more comfortably. Having recently lost every shred of dignity he possessed, it somehow came more easily tonight. He closed his eyes tiredly. "But I will be."

\-- 

The following day Athos was subdued and suffering from a headache that had little to do with the previous night's drinking, but he reassured Porthos that he was fine, and still able to accompany him to his appointment.

They ate a quick breakfast and had returned to their room for their outdoor wear when Porthos happened to glance out of the window.

"Oh _bollocks_." 

Athos looked up in surprise, leaning across to try and see what he was looking at, but the street below was empty. "What? What did you see?"

"Nothing." Porthos seemed conflicted and Athos gave him an exasperated look.

"Tell me."

Porthos sighed. "Constance. Coming in here." He grasped Athos' arm. "You don't have to see her. I'll say you're not well."

Athos shook his head. "I may be a thoroughly broken man, but I am not yet a coward," he said gently. "She deserves answers."

He made to move towards the door, but Porthos held him back. "Answers maybe, but not details," he warned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's not going to do her any favours to hear how he was tortured is it?" Porthos pointed out. "Don't try and make her hate you just because you think you deserve it."

Athos looked shaken by his words, but couldn't quite form a denial. A knock on the door proved to be the pot-boy with the message that they had a visitor downstairs, and they received Constance in a small parlour behind the tap room.

"Constance." Athos went to her looking solemn. "May I apologise for my shameful display last night. I'm afraid you took me rather by surprise."

Constance pressed his hands in hers and smiled sadly up at him. "It should be me apologising," she said, casting a wary glance at Porthos who was standing with his arms folded and not quite glaring at her. "I didn't mean to upset you like that." She looked awkward. "I went to beg Treville to tell me where you were staying this morning, and he rather told me off. I hadn't appreciated quite how bad you'd been." 

"No harm done. At least, only to my pride." Athos took a steadying breath. "You have more questions?"

Constance nodded. "I just - I need to know how he died," she said in a strained voice. "I've imagined such awful things."

Athos flicked a glance at Porthos, and considered his words. "He died bravely," Athos told her. "And with honour. Protecting the lives of a lot of people. You can be proud of him."

Constance nodded, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "You were with him? At the end I mean? He didn't die alone?"

"I was with him," Athos promised, looking almost closer to tears than she was. "He - he died in my arms."

Constance gave a jerky nod, stifling a sob, and Athos looked more wretched than ever.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "If I could change places with him, I would." 

Constance looked shocked. "No. No, Athos, you can't think I'd want that. Not even for d'Artagnan." She took a shuddering breath, and smoothed down her skirts. "I'm sorry for pestering you like this, when it must be painful to remember. I'd better go. I think Porthos is angry with me."

Athos managed a smile, looking over her shoulder at him. "He wouldn't dare." 

Porthos snorted, and held his arms out to Constance. "Come here, trouble." He gave her a hug, and she looked a little brighter.

"Are you and Alexandre managing?" Athos asked her. "I'm sorry, I really should have thought to ask after you before this. It's just all been rather difficult for me I'm afraid."

Porthos muttered something rude about understatements, and Athos frowned at him. 

Constance shook her head. "I'm well provided for. The Queen has been amazing. And whoever thought that my son would get to grow up with a prince!" 

Athos smiled. "I'm glad. But if you ever need anything, please, don't hesitate to ask. And you must come and visit us."

"I will. I promise." To Athos' surprise Constance hugged him as well, before taking her leave of them.

When she'd gone, Porthos came over and slipped an arm around his shoulders, pretending not to notice as Athos discreetly wiped his eyes. 

"You okay? Maybe you should stay here after all."

Athos shook his head. "I'm alright. To be honest, I could do with something to take my mind off everything."

"Swap your problems for mine you mean?" Porthos laughed, and Athos leaned in against him for a moment and smiled.

"They do say a change is as good as a rest."

\--


	9. Chapter 9

As they had a little time, they walked together through the city to their appointment. The noise and the bustle made Athos stick instinctively close to Porthos, wondering how he could ever have endured such clamour on the senses without thinking twice about it. 

When Porthos saw he was a little uneasy, he fell into step and linked their arms, and with this solid comfort on hand Athos started to actually rather enjoy himself.

Arriving at the offices of Fabron and Lécuyer they were shown in by a clerk to a short, grey haired man who turned out to be Monsieur Fabron himself. He peered up at them through a pair of spectacles as Porthos introduced himself and appeared to do a double take.

" _You_ , are the son of the Marquis de Belgard?" he asked in tones that suggested he doubted this extremely.

"Yeah. I am." Porthos produced his discharge papers from the Musketeer regiment, having expected to be required to prove his identity, but the man in front of him barely glanced at them, looking Porthos up and down instead with an open suspicion that bordered on insulting.

"Forgive me, but I am acquainted with the Marquis and his daughter, I was expecting someone - " he tailed off, and Porthos scowled at him.

"Whiter?" he supplied, and Fabron cleared his throat and set about studying the papers with a close attention that suggested he was suspecting a forgery.

Athos had watched all this with a barely controlled indignance, and now stepped forward. 

"Is there a problem?"

"And you are?" Fabron blinked at him.

"My name is Athos, Comte de la Fére, also previously of the King's Musketeers, and I can vouch for this man's identity," Athos snapped with a coldly aristocratic precision. His tone seemed to do the trick where Porthos' paperwork had failed, and Fabron immediately deferred to the withering level of natural authority.

"Of course, of course, my apologies my lord. I'm sure you appreciate we cannot be too careful, when dealing with such substantial sums of money. Please come this way." He scurried off towards a door at the back and Porthos nudged Athos with a grin.

"Knew I brought you for a reason."

Athos gave him a glimmer of a smile. "Glad I could be of service." 

Intrigued by the mention of large sums of money they followed Fabron into the back office and took the seats they were shown, declining the offer of a drink.

"Well, we were not sure that we would be able to find you sir," Fabron said to Porthos, looking him over with a bright interest now that he was finally satisfied as to his identity.

"Yeah, well, I've been a bit out of touch with things," Porthos admitted. "Look, what's this all about? What's he want?"

"Want? Who?"

Porthos frowned. "My father."

Fabron looked taken aback. "I'm not sure you understand. We have been instructed to settle the affairs of the Marquis' estate." 

Porthos exchanged a startled look with Athos. "Are you saying he's dead?"

"Well - yes. I'm sorry, you didn't know?"

"How would I know?" Porthos demanded. "Your letters told me exactly nothing."

Fabron leaned back a little, out of range of Porthos' ire. "Well, given that he was your father, we rather assumed - " he let the reproving thought tail off, and Porthos grunted.

"We were estranged. I'd not seen him for years. I've been away anyway, fighting in the war," Porthos added a little defensively.

"Are you saying Belgard has left Porthos something in his will?" Athos asked, as surprised as Porthos by this development.

Fabron spread his hands. "Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. As his only son, he has made you his sole heir."

A startled silence followed this statement. 

"Are you saying - he's left me everything?" Porthos clarified cautiously. 

"Yes."

Porthos stared at him. "What about Eleanor?" he asked. He hadn't exactly left Eleanor and Belgard on good terms with each other, but Fabron had said he was acquainted with her, so she must still be on the scene.

"Ah, yes, the indomitable Madame Levesque." Fabron steepled his fingers. "She is, obviously, trying to contest the will."

"Obviously." Porthos shot an amused look at Athos.

"She is claiming he was not of sound mind, however as I drew the will up for him and had it witnessed, I am fully confident that he was. I rather suspect he made the decision entirely to spite her."

"He's really left her with nothing?" Porthos asked, feeling increasingly glad that this was a family he'd declined anything further to do with.

"Indeed. I believe Madame Levesque nursed him through his last illness, and is consequently rather irate about this development. I understand her husband died in prison some years ago, while awaiting trial for something. Her husband's house was subsequently seized by the crown, and she has since been living on her father's charity." 

Fabron related this with the air of a man who had had this shouted at him on several occasions by the lady in question. "Which will now, obviously, be your charity, at your discretion."

Porthos looked stunned. "May we have a moment?" he asked. Fabron withdrew, and Porthos turned to Athos with a shaken expression.

"Well." Athos was at a loss for words. "I'm sorry, Porthos, for your bereavement, and to learn of it in this way."

Porthos looked uncomfortable. "It's not as if he was ever a father to me," he muttered.

"Even so." Athos reached over and took his hand, and Porthos squeezed his fingers gratefully.

"Will you accept it?" Athos asked. "It would mean the title, and lands, as well as the house and the money."

Porthos sighed, relieved that Athos understood him well enough to know that he would not automatically find such an offer a good thing. "I'm not sure I want it," he admitted. "What do you think I should do?"

Athos shook his head. "I can't make the decision for you."

"I'm not asking you to. Just - what would you do?"

Athos gave him a smile that contained a suggestion of amusement. "You know what I'd do," he said. "I've already done it. But that doesn't mean it's the right thing for you too." 

"After what he did, I'm not sure I want anything of his," Porthos said bitterly.

"You could equally argue that after what he did, he owes you," Athos pointed out.

"Yeah. I suppose." Porthos considered the options for a few minutes, Athos letting him muse in silence, then he drew himself up and nodded. He'd made his decision, and for better or worse he would stick to it.

They called Fabron back in, who looked at them both curiously, surprised by the lack of enthusiasm at the news of the bequest, particularly in the apparent absence of the grief that might otherwise explain it. 

Porthos took a deep breath. "Eleanor can keep the house," he said. "The house, the estate - I'm not interested. It's a decision I made years ago, and I see no reason to change my mind now. She grew up there, it means nothing to me."

Fabron looked startled. "You're sure?"

"Certain." Porthos looked over at Athos, who gave him a discreet smile of reassurance. He'd guessed which way Porthos would go, and backed his choice all the way.

"Very well. Most of the value of the legacy is tied up with the estate, but there is a certain amount of money and also a modest collection of gemstones that were previously separate bequests in Belgard's original will," Fabron continued. "How do you wish to dispose of these items?"

Porthos fought himself over this for a few seconds, then gave in. "I'll take those," he conceded. "Everything else can go to Eleanor. She don't especially deserve it, but I guess being brought up by Belgard probably made her the way she is. Maybe I had a lucky escape after all."

Fabron bustled off to deal with the paperwork, shaking his head at what he saw as an act of supreme idiocy. Porthos sighed.

"Have I done the right thing?" he asked, as he and Athos got to their feet.

"How do you feel? Relieved? Or not?"

Porthos considered, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. You're right, I do. I don't think I'm cut out to be a Marquis." 

"Sure? Money, prestige - once upon a time they were some of your favourite things," Athos teased.

Porthos looked at him, and smiled. "I've already got everything I want," he said softly.

\--

It took several hours for Fabron to draw up the appropriate paperwork to formalise Porthos' decision. Rather than be forced to come back again another day they decided to wait, with Athos witnessing his signature when all was complete. 

By the time they arrived back at the inn it was the middle of the afternoon. "What do you want to do with the rest of the day?" Porthos asked, once they'd had a well-deserved meal.

Athos hesitated. "We could just go home?" he said hopefully.

"It'll be dark by the time we get there, if we leave this late," Porthos reminded him. 

"I know. It'll be okay."

"Sure? You said you didn't fancy those dark lanes much."

Athos smiled. "I'll be alright as long as I'm with you."

Porthos nodded. "Fair enough. Can't say I'm sorry at the thought of getting back to my own bed."

They paid their bill and left, setting out on the long ride back to Pinon. It was an uneventful journey, with both men unusually quiet, wrapped up in their own thoughts. 

By the time they finally arrived back and had stabled the horses it was well past midnight, and they went straight up to bed.

"Shall I put out the candle?" Porthos asked, a definite note of hope in his voice. The previous night there'd been no room for anything but comfort, and after the day he'd had, Porthos wanted nothing more than to be able to take Athos into his arms, and be held in return.

"No. Leave it," Athos said, and Porthos complied without argument, climbing in beside him.

"We could have waited till morning and come back in daylight you know," he smiled sympathetically.

Athos shook his head. "It's not the dark," he said quietly, and lifted a hand to Porthos' face, regarding him with a look of soft intensity. "I want to see you."

To Porthos' surprise, Athos leaned in and kissed him. It was fleeting and gentle, and afterwards Athos didn't pull away, but stayed leaning against Porthos' shoulder, their heads resting together.

Porthos stayed absolutely still, scared of saying or doing the wrong thing, but after a while Athos tilted his face up again and it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss him.

This time it was longer, and rather more heated, and afterwards Porthos wrapped Athos in his arms and held him warmly.

"What changed?" he asked quietly, smiling down at Athos and feeling like he might burst with happiness, although part of him was still afraid this was only temporary.

"I don't know." Athos sighed. "Me, maybe." He met Porthos' wondering gaze, and blushed a little. "I think maybe it was seeing Constance. She's all alone now, and she must miss d'Artagnan so much."

"She'll find somebody else," Porthos said. "One day."

"You think so?"

Porthos nodded. "She's still young. And pretty. And pragmatic," he added, with a smile. "One day there'll be someone. And I can't believe d'Artagnan would have wanted her to spend her life alone." 

He looked sideways at Athos. "If she does move on, it won't mean she loved him any less," Porthos said carefully. "Or make what they had any less important."

Athos half-smiled "Why do I get the impression we're not talking about d'Artagnan and Constance any more?"

Porthos laughed sheepishly. "Subtlety was never my strong point." It had been something he'd wondered more than once, how much of Athos' reluctance to acknowledge what they were doing had to do with the fact that he was technically at least still married to Milady.

"Point taken," said Athos. "But unnecessary. I hadn't actually been thinking of her."

"No?" 

Athos shook his head. "Wherever she is I wish her well," he said quietly. "But she's not who I want to be with any more." 

He took a deep breath. "Constance - would give anything, to have d'Artagnan back with her. It's made me realise that what I'm doing - that every day I deny what we have, and what's happening between us - that it's a betrayal. Of you, and maybe also of myself. I won't do it any longer."

Athos sat up, and met Porthos' gaze. 

"I love you Porthos," he said. "And I won't spend another hour pretending that I don't."

Porthos stared at him, too choked up to form any coherent words. He did the only thing he could think of and kissed him, almost falling into Athos' arms. Athos kissed back, responding to the desperation in his embrace and holding him tightly.

"I love you too," Porthos managed at last, his face buried in Athos' hair, and his heart pounding.

Athos smiled, pressing a kiss to the only part of Porthos' cheek he could currently reach. "That's all right then," he murmured, and Porthos gave a muffled laugh.

They pulled back enough to look at each other, both faintly embarrassed but practically glowing from the simple joy of their mutual declaration. 

"I'm sorry," Athos said quietly. "I've been a fool."

Porthos shook his head. "No you haven't," he told him. "You might have had reservations about it all, and I can hardly blame you for that - but to be honest you've never once managed a _really_ convincing denial."

Athos gave a slight laugh. "My head was saying one thing, and my heart another," he confessed. 

"Not to mention your body," Porthos added, and cackled in delight at the flush that spread across Athos' face.

Porthos moved in to kiss him again and Athos responded, letting the fears that had plagued him begin to slip away. 

They’d been kissing each other for some time, when Porthos sat back for just long enough to pull his nightshirt off again. He grinned at Athos, who ducked his head at the sparkling challenge in Porthos' eyes. 

"You're shameless," Athos chided, but he was smiling.

"You said you wanted to see me," Porthos laughed. "Well here I am."

"Here you are indeed." Athos reached out a hand and stroked down Porthos' arm with a shy admiration. 

"Don't stop there," Porthos smirked, making his steadily rising cock bounce in his lap.

Athos snorted, but as he leaned in for another kiss he did let his hand find its way down for a discreet fondle, making Porthos almost choke in surprise.

After that, Porthos took hold of the hem of Athos' nightshirt, and made to lift it off in turn. Athos though, twisted his fingers into the material in a gesture of protest and Porthos stopped.

"No?" Porthos asked. "Won't you let me see you too?"

A little reluctantly Athos let him finish the job and lift it off him, sitting in a hunched and uncomfortable huddle as soon as he was naked.

"Athos? What's wrong?" Porthos asked quietly. He suddenly realised that Athos wasn't trying to cover his modesty but had his arms wrapped protectively around his chest instead, his hands splayed out around his upper arms. The light dawned. "Is it the scars?" 

Athos nodded jerkily. "I don't exactly look appealing," he said in a low voice.

"You do to me," Porthos promised. "Besides, I've seen you shirtless before?" he murmured. "Countless times."

Athos slowly let his arms fall, looking extremely self-conscious, and Porthos reached over and took one of his hands in his, stroking a thumb comfortingly over his knuckles. Athos produced a shaky sigh. "Never like this. Not when you've been looking at me in this way."

"How do you know?" Porthos grinned, and Athos gave a startled huff of laughter. Porthos wriggled closer until they were sitting side by side, and wrapped an arm around Athos' waist.

"As far as I'm concerned," Porthos told him, "you got every one of those scars defending my life." He dropped a kiss onto Athos' bare shoulder. "And I am going to give each and every one of them," he kissed him again, a little further down Athos' arm, "the worship it deserves."

He carried on kissing his way down Athos' arm, and then started working across his chest. Athos pushed his fingers into Porthos' hair and looked down at him with a fond and grateful amusement that turned into breathy laughter as Porthos continued to kiss his way downwards.

"I don't have any scars down there," Athos pointed out.

"Hmmn?" Porthos glanced up at him with an innocent expression, before deliberately sliding his mouth over the tip of Athos' cock. He'd been half-hard since they'd started kissing, and now Porthos felt him thickening further in his mouth as he sucked at him.

They had done this for each other once before, on an evening where Athos had drunk rather more wine than usual and was feeling uncommonly more relaxed about things. But that had been in the dark, and under the covers, and this was a different experience entirely.

Athos watched transfixed as Porthos proceeded to suck and stroke him to full hardness, before climbing back up Athos' body to kiss him full on the mouth.

They lay down together, still kissing and wrapped in each other's arms.

"Want me to continue?" Porthos asked with a wicked smile, and Athos gave a breathless nod.

"God, yes, please. You looked - incredible, like that."

Pleased, not just that Athos was enjoying this but that he was still whole-heartedly in favour of being able to see what was going on, Porthos moved down and knelt between his legs. He looked back up at Athos, letting a slow grin spread across his face before dipping to take Athos into his mouth.

Athos gave a fluttering sigh of approval, still hardly able to take his eyes off what Porthos was doing. To watch the movement of Porthos' mouth on him was almost as arousing as the sensations themselves, and Athos had a moment to wish he'd come to his senses before now.

Porthos, who at this angle was going slightly cross-eyed trying to watch Athos at the same time as sucking him off, finally gave his whole attention to the job at hand. 

The first time he'd done this had been something of an experiment, but Athos had certainly seemed pleased enough with the result, even to the extent of returning the favour, which Porthos hadn't been expecting at all. 

Now that he could see what he was doing it was proving a lot easier, and Porthos went at it with enthusiasm. Athos' hand was back in his hair and Porthos found he liked that very much, groaning approval when Athos gave a sudden sharp tug.

A moment later the reason for the warning became apparent, as Athos gave a moan of his own and spilled suddenly into Porthos' mouth. Awarding himself a mental pat on the back for managing not to choke, Porthos braced himself and swallowed, trying not to grimace. 

Athos reached out a hand and pulled him back up to lie next to him, kissing Porthos' messy mouth with a blissed-out sigh.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Porthos smiled. "You're very welcome." He nestled into Athos' side, still not quite confident enough of Athos' new resolve to demand immediate reciprocation. "It's been an eventful day, hasn't it?" he murmured.

"You could say that. Enough to last me for a good while to come, I think," Athos agreed. He turned in to Porthos and kissed him again. "I'm sorry, about your father."

Porthos shook his head. "Don't be. As far as I'm concerned, the most important part of my family's right here."

For a while they just held each other, reflecting quietly on the day gone past, and on the last few months. 

"Did you want to go to sleep?" Porthos asked after a while.

Athos stirred himself, and sat up. "I'm neglecting you," he apologised. "You should have said."

Porthos grinned. "It's not compulsory. I'm half asleep meself, anyway."

The smile he got in return made Porthos shiver with sudden anticipation.

"Well let me see if I can't just wake you up again," said Athos.

\--


End file.
